


Baltimore Woods

by fkbunnyclub



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Chilton is a Sleaze, Creepy Hannibal, Graham Cracker Will is so Angsty, Hannibal Loves Will, Is That Even A Surprise, M/M, Not Beta Read, Poor Will, Possessive Hannibal, Protective Hannibal, Someone Help Will Graham
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-21
Updated: 2017-12-04
Packaged: 2018-05-22 10:02:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 40,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6075099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fkbunnyclub/pseuds/fkbunnyclub
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The woods are a place where strange tales come true. This applies even to the story of one Will Graham; a misunderstood, detested empath who is called in to solve the recent string of brutal murders occurring at the tree line, and Hannibal Lecter; who revels in playing the part of the wolf, more so now that the prize is the lovely Will himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

At the edge of the kingdom sits a small patch of land called Wolf Trap, and beyond it lies the ill reputed Baltimore Woods. Baltimore’s city center itself is much farther north and is a place bedecked in the wealth of its inhabitants. The higher strata of society occupy the further north, their coffers filled higher than the city’s treasury.

These are areas that Will Graham eschews. However, today is the second Sunday of the month. It’s required that on this day, he stock up on necessary household items, and this is something he has to make a trip to Baltimore to fulfill. 

Winston whines and paws at the floor, the damp scent of Will’s old satchel flooding his nostrils and signaling what is to come. The others pile into the room and frolic around him as he packs the measly amount of money he’s put aside for this errand. The whining continues until he whistles loudly, causing all the dogs to fall eerily silent. Eight pairs of eyes never leave his back, as he gets ready. 

If he could survive on small animals and plants from the forest, he would. Baltimore’s woods could have easily provided him with nearly everything, if not for its nefarious nature that keeps everyone away. The floorboards creak with his footsteps as he prepares to leave. Chester barks in alarm as Will makes his way out of the room, and they all follow him, padding silently, to the entrance of the cottage. Their golden eyes, glinting under the piercing rays of light that have stolen past his hastily drawn curtains, remain wide open and blinking as he picks up the keys to the house.

As he locks the door, succeeding only after a few tries due to his trembling hands, he can hear them pawing at it from the other side and sighs. He abhors these days as much as his dogs do.

Whether acknowledged as a gift or a curse, Will’s unique ability of empathy comes with a steep price. His odd behavior and trouble with socializing have earned him an infamous standing among the citizens of Baltimore and other neighboring cities. Will knows what he’s going to face in the city and tries to braces himself for the treatment as he walks, boots sinking into the damp trail, sagging in with weight from rain.

Nearing the village, Will’s eyes focus on the visage of scorn worn by the guards. They say nothing as he approaches them, but when one of them slams into his shoulder as he enters through the tiny gate, Will knows it is intentional with intent to hurt. His empathy has already caught quick sight of what the man thinks of him. The picture of him burning away flickers in his mind for a split second before flicking away, but Will can feel the heat and hear the crackle of the flames slithering close as he rushes away awkwardly from the gate.

“Have a great trip!” another one calls out, sarcasm evident in his tone, and Will, startled, misses a step. As he steadies himself, he hears the peal of laughter clearly from behind him.  
Nothing new.

The market is crowded, as it usually is. There is barely space to produce a wide enough gap between his steps, but he manages to navigate through it. This rush keeps him hidden and Will doesn’t mind it since there isn’t much he has to purchase today. Cooking items, fruits, and vegetables are the priority. A slice of meat, perhaps, if he has enough money.

The pouch of money, hanging at his waist, is light and Will aims to spend it wisely. Job opportunities are rather rare for him.

Once they notice his presence, the people stare more so than usual and make way for him, giving him a wide berth as he passes. The whispers are loud. He can feel eyes bleeding black caverns in him as he navigates the market, tense and strung high with anticipation. The usual stalls are uninviting and Will relents, he knows what the others think of him. Opinions change as easily as the wind changes its direction. 

The whispers of witchcraft, black magic, and voodoo have always followed him. It is his shadow, a part of him. It’s become an integral part of his life and he’s learned to cope with it. 

However, this intensity is altogether new.

He stumbles through to an unfamiliar stall at the far edge of the market. There are fewer options here, but the stall owner is far more open and the people aren’t crowding behind him. He reaches for the apples, darkened by the harsh light of the afternoon sun, a dark purplish red of drying blood settled into cement. Perfect.

“Will!” 

A female voice calls out to him as he picks out more apples.

Turning around, he comes face to face with a noblewoman. The day is only continuing to grow stranger.

“You shouldn’t be here,” she whispers as she draws near him. “Damn it, Will. What are you thinking?”

He frowns at her and picks up another apple, cold and strong in his hands, and lets his thumb press into the smooth skin until he can feel the soaked, juicy insides give way. Before it can dent, he places it in his basket.

“Why not?” asks Will.

“Haven’t you heard? I thought you would’ve heard from the guards at least,” the woman snaps. “They found a body out near the edge of the woods.”

Will places a few oranges into the basket. His hands tremble subtly underneath the cavern of his gloves and he can feel beads of sweat condensing on his skin, slicking it. The roar of his pulse in his ear drowns out the rest of Beverly’s rant. He diverts his focus to the coarse grooves in the hard covering of the orange and the citrusy tang that fills his nose as he brings it closer to his face to inspect it.

“I need the food, Bev.” he replies as he hands the now filled basket to the stall keeper, nonverbally requesting the cost with a tip of his head.

“Some of us can help you,” she says. When the stall keeper announces the amount, Beverly throws him the money from her purse and shushes Will’s protests. Grabbing the package from the man and sending an apologetic look his way, Beverly drags Will back through the market, trying to get away from the throng of people. “But you shouldn’t be here anyways. Freddie’s already started her theories and this time, they’ve caught fire.”

Will keeps his arms wound tight around his satchel and avoids the looks the passersby toss him. He doesn’t want to see what they think of him now. Eye contact is key to seeing their mind most of the time, so he’s grateful that Beverly is guiding him. 

“Freddie doesn’t care,” Beverly hisses, and the grip on Will’s arm tightens painfully causing him to wince. “She doesn’t care if you burn at the stake.”

She halts abruptly and Will nearly stumbles into her, but her vice like grip on his arm jerks him back and saves him from further humiliation.

“She’s changed tactics, and this time, her words are much more credible,” Beverly says softly, walking slower now and beside Will. “She’s saying you’ve got something to do with the body they’ve found.”

Will wrenches his arm from Beverly’s grasp as he considers the prospect that people might believe the tattling woman now. At least it explains the intensification of the stares and whispers. 

Freddie Lounds, a middle class woman trying to make a name for herself; has a favorite subject in Will. The topic of Will’s mysterious, elusive abilities give her more attention and recognition than anything else she spins. She doesn’t care if it’s accurate or if it’s plain slander, only wanting to be recognized enough to attempt to secure a position with the scribes up north, in the royal areas of Baltimore. 

He says nothing. Will has been friends with Beverly long enough to know that the woman does not believe it is him.

“What else do you need?” she turns to him, but Will only stares at the folds of her dress, crinkled from her rough style of walking. “You shouldn’t be left out here alone. I'll come with you. I'm upper class, anyways. They won't touch you as long as I'm with you.”

Will glances at his pouch of money. Beverly’s contribution means he can splurge and get some meat in addition to the cooking items he needs. Glancing at the store area they’ve reached, he jerks his head at the old decrepit shop where he buys his cooking supplies and they make their way over to it.

“What’s Freddie got against you?” Beverly snarls under her breath as Will browses the selection of cooking oils.

“Distrust, among other things,” Will mumbles, pointing out a small sized bottle to the shopkeeper, who makes no move to fetch it until Will moves away. “She wants to be recognized and has no regrets about how she gets it. She knows what sells and what doesn’t. She’s working a new angle, that’s all.”

“She’s painting you as a psychopath,” there is furious agitation in Beverly’s voice when she speaks this and Will takes note. Beverly, as loyal as a child to its mother, is horrified at the thought of Lounds weaving a tale of Will murdering the man.  
Beverly has spoken nothing of the details of the kill to the empath. The brutal and dehumanizing nature of display, to her, is far more gruesome than the act of killing itself. She does not know how to inform Will that Lounds has imagined exactly how Will would have done it and has made it her obligation to impress it upon anyone who would listen. “She’s saying you’re pretty good at getting in people’s head to look at stuff, so why not look into a killer’s head to see how he kills?”

Will frowns at this as he reaches for the package of supplies he’s purchased. When the shopkeeper’s fingers accidently brush his, Will startles and draws his hand back as an immediate reflex, sighing when the shopkeeper moves away to let Will gather his items in peace.

“I can’t even handle a market without you guiding me,” Will replies as they move to the final stop. “I don't think I could handle getting into a killer’s head and kill and then not be affected by it. It’s hard enough dealing with all this.”

He taps at his head and Beverly frowns at him.

“She’s not a physician, neither are the rest of the local population,” There’s a hint of scorn in Beverly’s voice. “They don't care about things like that. They’ll twist it and make it into what they want.”

As they near the butcher’s stall, Will notices the unusual stance the men in the area have taken at his arrival. The women regard him with curiosity and distaste as they hide their children behind them, eyes travelling with him as he makes his way over to the shop. He sees neither their face nor their eyes, but the actions they make with their bodies is enough to tell him long tales. It’s easy to see what people think when he is overtly empathic.

Beverly motions to the butcher and the man immediately rushes to cater to her, only glancing at Will warily for a second. As she orders the cuts of meat, Will’s eyes stray to a child, who is gazing at him with enough prejudice to make him cringe. 

“Will Graham!” 

He stiffens and tears his gaze away from the child.

“You’ve got some nerve,” the shrill voice screeches out. “You’ve got some nerve coming here in the middle of us normal folk.”

There are more people now focusing on this than they are on their shopping. Will wishes this gets over soon so he can head back to the comforts of his home.

“How blind do you think we are?” Lounds questions him. “Do you really think we can't figure out who did it?”

Will says nothing, his voice caught in his throat, heavy on his vocal chords like a stone on paper and instead turns around, looking for Beverly. She’s still talking with the butcher.

“He’s got nothing to say,” Lounds turns to the rest of the people gathered and the others slowly amassing. “What’s to say he can't think like a killer? He can think like all of us can't he? It can't be that big of a deal then, for him to kill somebody while pretending he’s a different man!”

There’s a murmur of agreement from the people. Will is starting to shiver, and the faces are all blurring into a condensed mass of hair and featureless faces. The sounds are all starting to bleed into one another too. He can't take much more of this exposure. He’s already drawing on the intense feelings some people have for him from the crowd. One mind melts into another and Will has no idea where his own mind is. Lounds’ voice drifts through this haze like a horn, dimly keeping him aware of his surroundings.

“What a perfect way to cover up the crime, to pretend to be a different person, no one’s ever going to catch him if they’re looking for a man who doesn’t exist!”

The people are lapping up her words. It’s an easy way out for them- to imagine him, a social outcast, and anomaly, as the killer, rather than one of their own. Lounds certainly has no difficulty imagining it.

“You’re plenty good at pretending to be other people too,” Beverly steps in for Will, staring down Freddie. “Your blind accusations have gotten you in plenty of trouble before.”

Freddie Lounds shrivels at the reminder, but glares at them in contempt.

“Everyone has their own versions of the truth,” she says, already withdrawing from the confrontation, but the impact of her words on the people is visible, more than a few are riled up. “You choose to not see all sides of it.”

Beverly grasps Will’s arm and tosses the butcher’s package into his satchel before leading him away. Will follows without protest, body sluggish and tired. The crowd continues to watch them as they retreat. Will can’t tell what his own feelings about Lounds’ words are because there are far too many other minds that are melding with his. 

Once they are clear of the market, Beverly halts her hurried pace for breath. Will’s satchel is heavier than it is normally, and it weighs down his arms like dead weight, paining his arms, which burn with the strain of carrying it. 

“Lounds is going to rot in hell,” she spits in anger, before turning back to him. “You have an appointment or are you heading home?”

Will shrugs.

“Not an appointment,” he answers, smoothing out the crinkles in his coat, wishing he could do the same to calm his nervousness. “Alana said I should drop by her office the next Sunday I came by. Said she’ll look into something that can help me.”

“Right,” Beverly huffs. “I'll drop you off there, but after that, I’ve got to get back to work.”

Will nods in agreement. His composure is frail from the confrontation in the market, but he had agreed to Alana last time. He’s just not sure how long he can maintain the calm façade in front of her.

\---

They take a carriage ride to Alana’s house, privileges of having a friend from a high class for Will. Much like Beverly, Alana is part of the well-known circles of Baltimore. A rising physician working with the royal guard, she has a reputed name in the city and with the royalty that abides in the nearby areas on occasion. Will vaguely remembers her mentioning her mentor, some famous man with an odd name.

Alana is a good friend, but Will is more than aware of the hesitancy she has with him. While she does attempt to maintain friendship with him, her professional curiosities, and systems often bleed into their lives, coloring their interaction a different hue. The last time he had come to the city, his condition had been abysmal and Alana had promised Will and herself that she would find a way to treat him. Or at least help him improve.

The house, like the others surrounding it, is elegant in its architecture and beauty. 

Will notices another carriage parked at the entrance and immediately regrets coming. He hadn’t thought that she would simply pick someone out for him without consulting him. However, Beverly has taken time from her work to make sure he’s come for his appointment, so he trudges up the steps to the patio. The elegant carved handle of the knocker mocks him with its grotesque design. Bracing himself for the company that Alana probably has, Will brings down the knocker soundly on the wood twice. The resounding echo reaches his ears soon enough as does the footsteps. Will only prays it’s not the guest.

The door opens to reveal Alana herself, clad in her traditional dark hued gown with darker edges of lace accentuating her hourglass waist.

“Hello, Will,” She greets. The empath can immediately sense her discomfort blossoming, like water engulfing a flower. Though he averts his eyes and keeps his face tilted away, it does nothing to change her demeanor. “Come in.”

He enters the house, still not used to the items of high value Alana has kept all over the place, a material reminder of how far she has come. They are pieces to remind her that she is above others, filling her with cold hard reality of the pay of her job despite it repercussions. When Will sees the latest painting, probably worth more than his cottage and his land, he feels sick. To be regarded so wonderfully as an exquisite work of art and then purchased to serve as nothing more than a cold reminder and to collect dust is a feeling he doesn’t want in his head. His self-confidence is already settled in somewhere below rock bottom.

He tears his eyes away before his empathy can intensify and follows her to the study.

The first thing Will does, when he notices Frederick Chilton, is freeze in anger. He knows more than enough about the man to know to stay away. There’s also the expression the man is wearing. Will had been unsuspecting when he’d walked in to the room and their eyes had met. He’s seen Chilton’s design, or at least, part of it, and Will is not pleased.

Frederick Chilton simply _knows_ that Will Graham is a complex mental puzzle, an anomaly worth the risk of experimentation and discovery. He wants to see how far he can stretch Will’s mind. There are so many things that can be done to a sensitive and malleable mind like Will’s, just to gauge the reactions. The very thought of Chilton sinking his hands into Will’s head and touching his brain is euphoric to the man.

Shuddering at the thoughts, Will draws his eyes away from Chilton and sighs heavily at Alana’s lace frays touching the floor with an expression of a betrayed puppy. He certainly hadn’t been expecting this. He’s already voiced his opinion on being analyzed. He’s even spoken to Alana occasionally on his disdain for Chilton. The man is more interested in money and fame, and he knows that cracking Will’s ability is possibly the key to both.

“Alana-” Will starts, but is interrupted.

“Will,” Chilton calls out, gesturing to the empty chairs next to him. “Why don't you have a seat so we can discuss this ?”

“There’s nothing to discuss,” Will says slowly, turning back to Alana. “I'm not going to agree to this.”

“Will,” Alana chides harshly. “There are reasons why I’ve asked Chilton to take you on.”

“As his patient?”

He’s beginning to like this less and less. Will has never been fond of physicians, ever since one had wanted to cut into his brain to test his responses. He likes it even less when they treat him as a test subject.

“Sit, Will.” Alana pleades. “At least let me explain?”

Will hesitantly sits, sinking into the velvety chair in exhaustion. He knows Alana will never understand his viewpoint since she values Chilton as a colleague. Will knows that regardless of how well he explains that Chilton is in it for the money and fame, Alana will simply refuse to see it. 

“I can guess,” Will says wryly, wringing his hands in unease at Chilton’s greedy stare. “The body found out near the woods.”

“Heard from the locals?” Chilton asks, attempting to be neutral, but Will can sense the mocking tone in his mind, not quite believing Will having friends. 

“Freddie brought me up to speed on the latest gossip in town.” Will answers stiffly, glancing at Alana to gauge her reaction. There’s a throbbing migraine building in his head and he’s unable to focus on whatever Chilton is saying. Having to take on Chilton is more than enough interaction for Will, and the addition of Alana and her _concern_ is making him fainted headed.

“We simply can't let you go around unsupervised,” Alana says remorsefully. Will immediately knows she’s remorseful not because they have to resort to following him around, but because he hasn’t submitted himself to treatment, in her opinion, years ago. “Safety is priority Will.”

She’s projecting a vision of her trying to appease him, but she’s doing this to help herself. There’s a satisfaction she’s going to gain from seeing Will under Chilton.

“Don't worry,” Will answers. “I won't kill anyone else, at least, not so soon.”

“Will!” Alana reprimands in shock. “Don't speak like that. There are enough rumors regarding you.”

“What difference does it make then?” Will questions her bitterly.

Chilton is regarding Will with growing interest and this focused emotion is making Will queasy. He knows the man intends to get his patient, one way, or another.

“Safety,” Chilton replies and smirks, crossing his legs as Alana sits down. “Doesn’t just apply to you, what about the townspeople and the ones in the city?”

Alana glares at her fellow physician for his blatant remark before turning back to Will.

“While that is a concern,” she tries. “I'm genuinely worried about you, Will. Your condition has worsened since the last visit, and it’s imperative that you receive some sort of treatment or monitoring. There has been much progress in the study of mental processes much like yours.”

Will huffs at this and gets up, eyes fixed on the paisley patterned carpeted floor.

“I'm doing fine,” Will is not going to provide an opportunity for Chilton to exercise his grubby little fingers. “I’d better get going; it’s starting to grow dark.”

“I’ll accompany you to the door.” Alana volunteers. Will can sense her disappointment in the way her dress floats about her sluggishly, much like her dour mood.

As they walk to the entrance, Alana attempts to coerce Will into changing his mind. She waxes eloquently of Chilton’s accomplishments and his fame, but Will hears only the jingling tune of greed. He remains stagnant in his answers as he bids her farewell and begins his journey home.

\---

The higher class of Baltimore lives in the center of the city, in more spacious areas with luxurious decorations and amenities. To walk to the gate that separates the out skirts of the city from Wolf Trap and the woods takes an hour at the least. 

Unfortunately, today is especially slow thanks to the weight of his satchel.

The sun’s orange rays are lazing on the tip of the tall houses as Will hurries along the footpath. The woods are not a nice place once the sun sets. More than once, he’s seen unusual figures watching him. Will wants to be home before the sky turns a sleepy, dull blue.

As he rushes down the path, eyes focusing not on the road in front of him but the stone underneath his feet, Will completely fails to see the carriage that is coming up to the crossing, driven dangerously close to the edge of the footpath.

“Get outta the way, freak!” 

Will narrowly jumps out the way of the carriage that careens dangerously close, heart thudding in his chest. He sees it stop a few feet away and draws in a deep breath. The shrouded driver and the sole passenger, a man in a coat so crisp its sharp edges cut the light of the streetlamp, speak amongst themselves for a moment. Then Will watches in tensed anticipation as the passenger climbs down.

He wants nothing to do with this; he’s had enough of confrontations for one day. Will remains tensed as the stranger approaches him.

The man in front of him is moving slowly, with the languid surety of a powerful predator. There is nowhere for Will to flee, the open road being highly disadvantageous.

“I apologize,” the man calls out as he draws near Will. The voice is smooth, the accent lilted, foreign, and it slides through Will’s ears like honey- heavy and pungent. “My driver is rather inexperienced. I hope he did you no harm. Are you alright?”

Shifting the bag in his arms, Will nods.

“I'm okay, thanks,” Will doesn’t want to offend the man, clearly of high status, but he’s in a rush. “I need to get going, sorry. Thanks again.”

He doesn’t want to see the stranger’s face. The mere heavy, shrouding aura the man is emanating is more than enough for Will to know he ought to be miles away from the man. Will makes a move to walk away but gets no further than half a step. The different layers he can sense beneath the words stop him cold.

“Where are you headed?” 

Cursing in his mind, Will jerks his head vaguely in the direction he’s walking. His legs feel like jelly on a glass plate, not under his control. The tone the man is using is dominating, and it washes over Will in a heady rush. It provides some clarity in the fog that is his murky, empathic brain.

“Outside the gates,” he informs, desperate to be home and away from this person. Will’s past his limit for social interaction for the day. “Wolf Trap.”

The man’s brows rise subtly and Will is aware that this is a deliberate action. A hunter is always calculated in its moves. He concentrates on the hair, slicked back neatly and avoids the eyes. The man is quite fascinated by his empathic ability, which he had perceived a while ago; Will realizes and moves his gaze away from the neatly dressed person entirely. 

“Perhaps I could give you a ride,” the man requests and Will is pinned by the commanding tone lacing the polite request. He’s compelled to follow. “It is on my way.”

This catches Will’s attention. Despite the danger the situation poses, the stranger has, at the moment, genuine interest in Will, and intends no harm. It could no harm to take a free ride, Will thinks.

“You’re crossing the forest? Now?” Will enquires, glancing up the darkening sky before resting his vision back on earth.

“Important calls must be tended to quickly.”

Will is quick to catch onto what the man’s profession must be and his mood sours further. 

“I insist,” the words are uttered softly, but there is something in the way they are spoken that has Will nodding and following the man to the carriage. In a show of courtesy that Will has not received for a decade, the man holds open the carriage door for Will to clamber through, and he does so, blushing thoroughly.

Will fidgets around as the man enters and smoothly slides into the seat next to Will. He had been expecting the man to take the seat opposite him, and this choice startles him. They ride in silence, and all the while, Will is hyperaware of the man’s presence. Every time the man’s thighs brushes against his, Will forces himself to take several breaths to calm down.

Strangely, he finds that he is much calmer in the presence of this man. The cloud of his empathy has nothing to grasp and Will finds himself strangely _grounded_.

He knows the stranger is finding enjoyment in his reactions. His responses to being caught in a small space with a predator, clearly amuses the man. Will remains tensed not with fear, but with anticipation, for he knows the man will not hurt him. There is something else entirely the man wants to do with him. Then the tension too slides out of his weary body, letting him relax finally and he slumps against the edge of the carriage.

He clutches at his satchel and stares at the passing streets instead, and shoves away the thoughts. The stranger says nothing during the duration of the ride, but watches him intently.

When they do arrive, the man exits first and holds the door open for him. Blood rushes to his cheeks as he stumbles and clumsily apologizes and thanks the man, language in utter shambles as words hide from him. 

Chuckling softly, the man helps him stabilize his footing, one strong hand caressing Will’s arm and sending shivers across his body. As they retreat from the near embrace, Will finds himself starved for touch.

“It’s alright,” Will’s benefactor dusts off the satchel of food before handing it to him. “Pleasant company is always a pleasure. Now go, I shall watch until you are safely beyond the gate. My carriage can only pass through the larger south gate.”

The compliment prompts a light blush from Will.

“Thanks again,” Will offers hesitantly, aware all the apologies and thanks are now making the situation uncomfortable for him. “What’s your name?”

The man is one of the few who hasn’t passed judgement on Will and this intrigues him. There is a sense of normalcy he can adopt with this man. Pity Will might never see him again.

“Dr. Hannibal Lecter,” the man answers and Will can feel himself being subjected him to a full cursory glance and he turns his head away. “A pleasure.”

Nodding in thanks again for courtesy’s sake, hiding his burning cheeks, he takes off towards the gate, unaware that the man continues to watch him long after he has disappeared across the border.

Unknown to Will Graham, the wolf has marked him as a different sort of prey.

\---

The next day, a farmer by the name of Jeremy Olmstead is found dead at the edge of the woods.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> will work on this a bit slower than my previous work so that i can work on the quality of my writing. also, writing hannibal's POV is fucking hard wtf i rewrote it 4 times and im still not satisfied. huge thanks to my beta (a friend from my lit. honors major) for the feedback/editing help!

When Jeremy Olmstead received a notice in the evening requesting that he drive the consulting physician for the Royal Guard, a Dr. Hannibal Lecter, through Baltimore Woods, he’d been ecstatic. Everyone up in the city knew about the man’s flair for aesthetic grandeur. Also how willing he was to pay for it. Jeremy had been expecting a bag laden with coins. Instead, he’d received dismemberment.

A lifestyle of easy pickings and a lackadaisical attitude had made Jeremy Olmstead an ideal entrant for the wolf’s palate.

The body hung between the branches of the same tree that provided the man with material for his carriages, held up by the reigns used to work the horses. More distinctive is the hollowed out abdomen. The stomach, carved open, held within it, embossed gold coins, bursting from the sides of beetroot hued lining. The entrails formed a sphere around the body, making it resemble a wheel.

“What is this?” Jack Crawford snarls, gesturing at the body. 

“His greed got the better of him?” Zeller scoffs, attempting an explanation, shrugging his shoulders as he moves closer to examine the blood trickling from the man’s open mouth. 

Jack narrows his eyes and stalks forward, seizing the man’s collar and yanking him back.

“You better put out some good shit about this,” Jack warns him before releasing him. Zeller only rolls his eyes, straightening his coat. “Alana’s on her way here to try and make sense of this.”

“Why do we need her?” Price frowns, sketching out the figure for reference. 

“Whatever the fuck it is must mean something,” Jack explains, pointing to the fastidious decoration. “I don't know shit about what it means, but it must be something fucking special. I don't think it’s easy to do all of this.”

“Did you know Jack, they’re calling him the Ripper,” Alana Bloom’s voice cuts through their conversation and everyone turns to stare at her. “What do you think of that?”

Freddie Lounds is what he thinks of it. Jack tilts his head towards her in welcome, refusing to rise to her bait. He knows better than to dictate terms to the locals. Better to stay away from them.

“Same person, there’s no doubt in my mind,” Jack informs her, ushering her closer to the body. Up close, everyone can see the clean cuts and artistically arranged rivulets of blood. “Got any idea what this all means?”

“I can't tell you much, except whoever made these cuts has a steady hand and a great deal of knowledge on anatomy,” Alana says, shuddering as she notices the missing organs. She draws the edges of her dress in with the force of her palm and leans forward. “I don't see very many similarities between the last victim and this one. Maybe this was simply an act of impulse.”

“Nope,” Price pops his lips as he corrects her, drawing Alana’s attention to his sketch. “Calculated cuts done with precision and cut to draw out the bleeding to induce a slow, painful death for the victim. It can't be that impulsive when it’s this thought out.”

“Why don't you get in your boy for this? I bet he can tell us lots.” Zeller taunts, tromping back through the slightly damp mud. “Isn’t this his specialty?”

Jack turns to Alana, who pales at his stern gaze but stands ground.

“What boy? Graham?”

Alana grits her teeth at the demand. This exact event is something she has been avoiding since her involvement with the Royal Guard, courtesy of her mentor. Will Graham is a household name among local folk and even mentioned sometimes by the higher class in the dinner parties her teacher throws. Just as the very smell of food draws starved men, Will’s ability to peer inside the psyche of others lures an obstinate swarm of physicians.

“He can't get involved in this, Jack,” Alana’s posture is stiff, exhibiting her resistance in the matter, hands crossed at her chest. “I don't think his mind is stable enough to handle this.”

“I’ve got my own physicians.” Jack warns her, refuting her standing.

“You can't keep him safe from his own mind,” This is something even Alana isn’t able to fully understand, but in her field, is considered an immaculately constructed argument. Alana doesn’t know if anything she says will be enough to dissuade Jack from his new pursuit. ”Will’s mind does much more than just peek into that of others’.”

“I can keep him in check,” Jack refuses to see other ends brought upon Will Graham by such an intense immersion in a murder case. “I'm good at keeping my people on track.”

Alana narrows her eyes in skepticism. She’s experienced well enough how Jack handles his people. 

“C’mon Alana,” Jack says deliberately, and the tenor makes Alana wants to laugh. The attempt at soothing inducement is something she’s seen him implement countless times. Her immunity to it is phenomenal. “We could be making great progress with Will Graham.”

“What about Will, Jack?” Alana demands. “Who’s going to take care of him while you’re looking at the welfare of the rest of the people? Are you really telling me you can handle his abilities along with their consequences?”

“I will,” Jack snaps. “I’ve got enough experience and then some.”

There’s no deterring Jack Crawford when he’s set his sight on something. There’s not much she can do now except throw Will into the raging river with only a harness of rope for welfare. Jack himself knows he’s going to get what he wants despite her objections, so Alana decides to concede, but with restrictions.

“Alright Jack,” She’s not terribly pleased with this development, but she’s going to have to make do with what opportunities she has. “You’ll need to meet him and get his approval for this.”

“After breakfast?” Jack grunts, waving away Price and Zeller as he guides them both back to the waiting carriage.

“Alright, but give him some time to settle down,” Alana watches the tautness discharge from Jack’s shoulders as the man visibly slumps in posture. Perhaps, she thinks, this is an unburdening of sorts for Jack. Having someone who could significantly improve his chances of catching the killer could be giving Jack more breathing space. “When?”

“Tomorrow morning.” Jack says firmly.

Too soon, Alana wants to say, but there are already two murders. Swallowing and ramming down the guilt rising within her, she nods her assent. Jack sends her a wary smile as he closes the carriage doors and signals at the driver to speed away. 

As she watches the woods fade from the security of her velvety seat, Alana realizes that Jack hadn’t asked a single question about her interpretation of the crime scene after the mention of Will Graham. 

\---

Will Graham spends most of his days engrossed in his hobbies. Whether it’s drowning in the pages of a book, fishing, or simply cleaning, he makes sure to devote his entire mind to it. Today’s work of fiction is quite distracting. Jane Eyre is making his empathic mind spin lurid images of the secretive Rochester. All of the images are near accurate to the book’s description.

Save for the fact that they all possess Dr. Lecter’s face.

Closing the book with an exasperated huff, Will leans back into his couch and with his free hand, rubs his fatigued face. His obsession with Dr. Lecter has flourished within the past few days. He’s conscious of his craving to live a normal life and his mind has taken it upon itself to picture one where Dr. Lecter is providing for him. Will pulls up the florid memory of Dr. Lecter’s gestures and compliments and blushes modestly as he attempts to swim in the rapid current of emotion they create in his mind.

So when the harsh sound of his knocker crashing down on the timber door breaks through his thoughts, Will panics for one wild second.

Alana perhaps, Will reminds himself, placing a quivering hand over his chest to attempt to compose his thundering heart. No one dares come out here near the woods, more so now since the murders. He isn’t expecting anyone as well. All his mutts sprint for the door, barking madly at the unfamiliar scents permeating their senses. Will cautiously trails them to the door.

“Who’s there?” he asks, palms flat on the timber.

“Will?” Alana’s voice is muffled by the layer of wood. “May I come in?”

Sighing in frustration, Will unlocks the door and opens it wide enough to see whom exactly it is Alana has brought along with her. He hopes it isn’t Chilton. Instead what he sees is a man dressed in the dark prussian pigment of the Royal Guard with hunched shoulders and brows furrowed heavy due to stress. Bad news, Will tells himself, even as he opens the door wider.

“Jack Crawford,” the man introduces himself, extending his hand. “Heard a lot about you, Graham.”

Of course, you have, Will thinks bitterly, offering up his own.

Jack Crawford’s grip is solid. Will’s fingers are compressed beneath the man’s own. He knows exactly what Jack Crawford is here for so he doesn’t put much effort into the greeting. He lets Crawford shake their joined hands twice in a brisk manner before ushering them inside, pulse straining in his throat.

“It’s a bit dirty, sorry,” Will mumbles and cleans the sofa of old books for his guests to sit comfortably. “Want something to drink?”

Jack leans back against the sofa while Alana eyes him with pity. Will pours three full glasses. It’s more for his benefit if anything. He’s gleaned enough from Jack’s grip to know that the man won't leave until he gets what he wants. Will avoids eye contact as long as he can, deliberately taking his time to fill the glasses.

“Will, the murder case is Jack’s responsibility,” Alana says, staring pointedly at him. “He’s the head of the Royal Guard. He has a proposition for you, regarding a position on his team.”

Will narrows his eyes at both of them. Alana never breaches the subject so soon in conversations; much less begin with it, typical physician tactics. 

“Yeah?” Will prods.

Crawford leans forward, forearms resting on his thighs as he regards Will in an attempt to see the empath’s reaction to Alana’s statement. Will sees the motion and immediately looks at the curtains behind the sofa, not wanting to give anything away.

“I’ve been told you’ve heard a bit about the first murder,” Will nods at the account and Jack glances briefly at Alana before continuing. “We found another body yesterday. Not far off from the first one, same extravagant style.”

Will stays silent. He’d known this was going to be the end game since the man had entered his home, Alana wringing her hands metaphorically.

“The killer’s been setting up the bodies weirdly, almost like he’s trying to tell us something,” Jack’s eyebrows furrow in infuriation. He leans back and recesses before continuing. “I know they mean something, but nobody’s been able to guess exactly what.”

Will’s already guessed the next statement.

“I hear you have a distinctive talent.” Crawford says gradually, and Will can feel sweat building up at his nape. He hates his empathy, dragging undesirable sensations into his mind and alienating him in his own body. The man wants him to get inside the mind of a killer, and Will is not sure he can survive the repercussions of such a thing.

“You want me to get into the mind of a killer you can’t catch?”

If there’s a layer of apprehension in his voice, it’s because Will knows that if the people, more specifically Freddie Lounds, unearthed this, there would be hell in store for him. 

“In case you don't know,” Will endeavors to keep his voice from stuttering in the face of a tenacious Jack Crawford. “Freddie Lounds has already pointed me out as a suspect thanks to the very same fact. It’s not going to be really great for any of us if I get too involved."

“Forget that damn tramp,” Jack dismisses his concerns with a shrug and Will immediately comprehends how despondently neurotic the man is about this case. “People are going to have to accept you once we solve this. It’s going to be great for you once this is over.”

Will’s anxiety slowly rises at the blatant overestimation Jack has of his abilities. The fact that they might never catch this killer doesn’t seem to occur to the man. If he doesn’t catch the killer, Freddie Lounds is going to have even more credibility for her accusations. The thought sends shudders crawling down Will’s spine and he hastily snatches the glass of water off the table.

“That’s, it’s, not what I'm worried about,” Will stammers as he fumbles with the glass, water tipping dangerously to the side. “What happens if we don't catch the killer?”

Will thoughtlessly slugs down the water. His empathic mind has taken the idea and run with it, depicting for a brief second, the Court sentencing Will to prison.

“That’s not going to fucking happen,” Jack retorts ferociously. Will and Alana both are a bit taken aback by the vehemence in it. “I’ve got someone in mind if you need help, physically or mentally.”

Will raises his eyebrows and studies the glint of light reflected on the tooled buttons of Jack’s overcoat. He wonders who this ‘someone’ is.

“I don't like to be analyzed.”

Jack Crawford leans forward and taps the wood of the table to garner all of Will’s attention. Will has met two formidable men over the course of the week, but it’s only in Dr. Lecter’s presence that he’s felt content. Jack’s leeching supremacy makes Will’s skin crawl and he focuses staunchly on the thick fingers tapping his table, unable to meet the man’s eyes.

“You don't have to worry, Will,” Alana strains to reassure him of his comfort in the situation. She’s only stayed silent so far to scrutinize Jack’s conduct while being with Will. “I'm sure Jack has found someone suitable for you. At least consider it for the duration of the case, Will.”

Will sighs. Removing his glasses, he pinches the bridge of his nose in weariness. He knows he doesn’t have the option of saying no- not with Jack rooted with the idea of Will’s momentous talent of empathy.

“Alright,” Will says, exhaling. “I can give both of it a shot, but I don't think it’s going to turn out so great.”

As he says this, Alana leans toward Jack and pulls him in for a private conversation. Will turns his gaze to Winston, lazing on the floor and ponders what exactly this killer has in store for him. Will can only presume, based on Alana’s reactions, that the murders must be particularly ghastly. It’s not as if it’s a forced agreement, Will thinks. He genuinely wants society to embrace him. Will sees real potential to improve his life if this goes the way both he and Jack want it to.

“What’s so different about this?” Will interrupts their conversation, noting Alana’s distraught countenance. He’s not sure why she’s decisively agitated about his involvement, considering she’s the one who brought Crawford here.

“You’ll see.” Jack’s voice is grim.

\---

When Will finally sees Jeremy Olmstead’s body hung on the tree, his eyes immediately snap to the trials of blood staining the bark. The wine tint bleeds into his mind and Will’s head grows heavy until Price’s slap on his arm jerks from his trance like state. There’s unease in the man’s gesture, but as Will is not here to make friends, he tersely thanks the man and refocuses on the victim.

As Will inspects it, he sees how much thought has been put into the display. Will desperately tries not to think of it as a work of art. Some part of him appreciates the complexity.

“What’re you getting?” Jack’s eyes fixate on Will in expectation of a miracle.

“He took the organs?” Will asks, passing his gaze over the abdomen.

“And everything you don't see here.” Zeller informs Will. 

“They’re calling him the Ripper,” Jack frowns and glares at the people scouring the area. “I'm sure Lounds has something to do with that.”

Will drones out Jack’s voice, letting his mind recreate the murder, inserting himself into the mind of the killer the way one slips fingers into snug, perfectly fitted gloves. It’s overwhelming, seeing the murder this way. Will is not sure he can prevent this from seeping into his deepest recesses.

“This is impulsive,” Will’s voice is detached and bland as he lets his mind take reign over the scenario it’s crafted. He attempts to decipher the web of images and emotions in his head, trying to see the killer’s design. “He doesn’t see his victims as people or prey, they’re pigs. This one in particular was gutted because he toed the line too often.”

“His basic drives were regulated by his insatiability, a ravenousness want for money. He didn’t see this coming.”

Will pauses for a minute before continuing.

“The cuts are precise, he knows what hurts. There’s no emotion in this kill, it’s a simple act of reprimand. This is a _man_ who’s confident he won't be caught.”

Will’s words are ambrosia to a mortal Jack, who narrows down the suspect list immediately- surgeon, egoistic and maybe reclusive. 

“The money in the stomach?” Jack questions in a hushed voice, drawing closer to Will.

“Indicates of the replacement of one of his fundamental drives,” Will’s voice stagnant, but in his mind, he can see strong, sinewy hands cut across skin lightly, palliating the cut with some dulling herb. “It’s-”

Will stops. There’s no need to continue when his view of this kill and display might alarm Jack. There’s something in the nature of this exhibition that draws approbation from the twisted part of him. The assurance the killer has of not being  
apprehended has resulted in a strong bearing of dominance in the display, and Will’s mind is fervently lapping it up.

“Freaky,” Zeller moves in, whistling as he removes the money. “We’re going to take the body down to examine it now?”

Jack nods as he moves in closer to Will, eyeing the man worriedly. Will’s head throbs as a merlot-toned figure engulfs his vision. A set of antlers a top a head with crooked, sharp canines stands within the darkened sage tinted forest, watching him.

“Graham!” Jack calls out, rushing to the empath’s side.

Trembling, Will struggles to stay upright as his mind melds images together. The creature moves forward, stepping right through the tree and impales the nude body of Jeremy Olmstead upon its enormous antlers as it’s claws pry the skin of the abdomen open and blood gushes forth in short viscous spurts. There’s only the resounding crunch of ribs cracking, and the trickle of blood trailing down the body.

Jack Crawford watches Will’s hands rise up to clutch and pull at his hair painfully before collapsing outright.

Alana is going to have his head for this.

\--- 

A few days later, Jack Crawford finds himself having dinner at Hannibal’s estate. In Will’s absence, the Royal Guard has made minimal progress. Jack is worn out by the effort he’s put into the case over the last few days. Despite it being his second glass, the wine sweeping in lethargic waves against the crystal plane of his chalice offers no reprieve from his weariness. 

“Is something the matter, Jack?” Hannibal asks him.

Jack looks up from his wine to the physician seated across from him. 

“Nothing new,” Jack huffs. “It’s just the job taking its toll on me. New members and their fucking shit.”

Hannibal shifts in his seat, leaning forward, wanting to show that Jack has all of his interest. 

“A new case?” Hannibal inquires; concern piqued at Jack’s distressed state.

“The Ripper case, the one with the two murders at the edge of the woods?” Jack is a little surprised Hannibal hasn’t caught wind of it yet. “Been working on it for a week now.”

“What hinders your progress?” Hannibal asks. This line of questioning is acceptable for him, seeing that he’s the physician responsible for Jack’s men.

“Changes in the team,” Jack admits. “We’re not working well with it.” 

Jack’s irises flick to the edge of the protective salmon lining surrounding it. Hannibal immediately grasps the guilt that is plaguing Jack, perhaps a result of whatever has occurred, leaving the man incapable of leading the investigation.

“We’ve made changes in the Guard,” Hannibal reclines in his chair and listens, focusing on providing support to the distraught man. “We’re working with the empath now.”

Hannibal’s pulse roars unbidden; he can feel it pulsing rapidly through the vein on his wrist. The only sign of interest he permits Jack to see is the minute arch of his eyebrow.

“The empath who lives in Wolf Trap?” he questions softly, letting his tone display slight confusion.

“Yeah.” Jack grunts. “Will Graham? I'm not surprised you’ve heard about him.”

Hannibal relishes the tidbit and lets his tongue paint with his broiling emotions, testing the name against the wet cavern walls of his mouth.

“Gave us great information, at least, for the one day he worked with us.” Jack lets out a disappointed breath, disturbing the wine in his glass. He’s attempting to conceal the magnitude of the taxation the case has brought with it, Hannibal  
gathers. This is the model prospect for Hannibal to initiate his artful persuasions. “Wish he’d lasted longer.”

This is surprising when, upon meeting the man, Hannibal had been sure those eyes were capable of descending into the murkiest pools of thought.

“He had a seizure,” Hannibal can hear Jack’s derision of the empath’s symptoms beginning to find form. “Started mumbling shit and ended up fainting.”

Jack Crawford has a habit of underplaying events to detach them from him. Hannibal is sure that the seizure Will Graham had suffered must have been a critical one and is burning to see what sort of mental affliction is producing it.

“Not that I'm complaining about his presence on the team, just the baggage he’s got with him,” Jack clarifies, eyes slipping shut in a rare show of exhaustion. “Can't be too ungrateful when he’s given us a lot just for one day out in the field, right?”

“Oh?”

Seeing Jack grin irks Hannibal, he doesn’t appreciate the vigor that the head of the Royal Guard is attaining from Will Graham’s addition to the team. 

“Says the man thinks of his victims as pigs, people who are below him in all aspects. We’re looking for someone who’s the best at what he does, surgically, and renowned for it. Graham says we should consider the killer as someone who’s familiar with symbolism, since he’s leaving plenty in his displays,” The immodest manner makes Hannibal yearn to cut Jack off. “The arrangement of the displays according to Graham, show the killer’s expertise and intellect, something we’ve been keeping in mind during our investigation.”

He does nothing, instead savors in the subtle tint of adulation imparted by Will Graham’s de facto words. Good boy, Hannibal thinks fiercely, as he widens his eyes to project the correct amount of disgust at Jack.

Will Graham has made more progress than Jack Crawford and the rest of the Royal Guard ever could. Hannibal itches to hear more of Will’s thoughts on his design, and he can think of many ways to reward the man for his savory insight. Hannibal is aware that Will knows more than he divulges, and remarkably, he finds himself hungering for this knowledge. His canines sink faintly into the mucosa of tongue, grazing the papillae as his saliva builds up at the notion of sinking himself deep into the incongruity that is Will Graham in his life. Hannibal swallows down his greed and returns his thoughts to Jack.

“It’s not all great,” Jack rests his elbow on the arm of the velvety couch and rests his chin on his palm. “Graham comes with hallucinations, blackout, seizures, and every other fucking way there is to mentally freak out there is.”

“Has he ever been treated?” Hannibal knows an opportunity before it presents itself.

“In his childhood,” Jack relents, drinking in the concern Hannibal is plastering over his meat suit at the indication of such extensive symptoms. “Alana’s always been behind him to get himself treated.”

“It is prudent to tend to these before they intensify,” Hannibal offers, keeping his manners and tone professional. Jack must be kept ignorant of the interest that Will Graham provokes from whatever it is that dwells within the cavernous parts of Hannibal. “Alana has not taken him on?”

“No,” Jack frowns. “She’s uncomfortable with just the idea, no idea why.”

Alana Bloom is one of Hannibal’s best pupils, and to hear that she’s declining such a case makes him marvel at what sort of distorted entity Will Graham is.

“I would be too,” Jack shivers. “Graham’s a great consult, but he’s not a great choice for friendship. He’s nice and well mannered, but there’re all these mental issues he has. I'm sure one day, his ball’s going to drop and I'll end up having to go  
after him too.”

While Hannibal does enjoying pulling all the strings in play, he doesn’t value the abuse of exceptional gifts like Will Graham. To see Jack Crawford blatantly slur the empath arouses covetousness so feral in Hannibal that he visibly contests the impulse to tear the man’s tongue from the cavity of his mouth. Instead, he smiles at Jack and rises from his seat.

“Let me refill our glasses,” Hannibal states, taking the now empty chalice resting on the table beside Jack’s chair. He moves to his cherry table situated behind their chairs, surveying vigilantly as Jack removes his glasses and cleans them, even as his own hands deposit a finely crushed drug into the inebriant.

He returns to their seats in the center of the room, placing the tampered glass in Jack’s trusting grasp.

“The last glass before dinner, I'm afraid,” Hannibal, jesting, watches Jack nearly guzzle it. “Too much and the taste might mitigate that of today’s dish.”

“Sorry,” Jack grunts in apology, sipping lightly again. “Alana withholding Graham is giving me a headache. Damn if I know how I'm going to catch the killer without the shit Graham can give me.”

Patience is Hannibal’s forte, and he’s more than willing to indulge in establishing groundwork for his persuasions while he waits for the drug to take effect.

“Perhaps it would be wise to acquire a second opinion on Will Graham,” Hannibal interjects smoothly, already aware of the response this will incite. “Dr. Chilton makes exception to cases like these.”

Jack snorts at the counsel.

“Chilton’s already met Graham. Didn’t go so well,” the words, carrying light mirth melded poorly with infuriation, lets Hannibal see that the man is unable to unearth a resolution to the setback. “He doesn’t like to be analyzed.”

“It would be prudent, then,” Hannibal advises in a try to sway Jack’s judgement to allow seamless entry into the empath’s life. “To have family or close acquaintances visit him to aid and speed up his recovery.”

There is still the short window the drug will offer, where Hannibal will lead Jack exactly to where he wants him.

Jack’s response comes out sluggish and slow, signaling the drug taking effect. Letting his eyes dart to the clock, Hannibal begins to count down from twenty minutes; the window he has in which Jack Crawford’s receptiveness to suggestion is amplified.

“He has none.”

Hannibal leans back and keeps his tenor subdued, despite his contentment at the inferences drawn from the response. He has more leeway now to lure Will Graham into a further intimate bond.

“Alana will appreciate the insight another physician has to offer on Will Graham’s condition,” Hannibal counsels, as if recollecting the traits of his student. Jack alone must piece together the material Hannibal is sprinkling about in their conversation. “There are several physicians available to you should you to attempt this.”

Jack shakes his head unsteadily in disagreement.

“No, no,” Jack murmurs, tone meditative as the wine glass tilts perilously in his hand. Hannibal watches the wine swirl to the edges before ebbing sluggishly to the bottom. “Alana’s not going to accept anything they say. She values her friendship with Will so she’s not going to listen to whatever advice I give her.”

“Not even that of Dr. Sutcliffe?” Hannibal probes, deliberately letting his voice tone grow as if he is thrown. “She has always been fond of him.”

“Doesn’t trust any one of them enough,” Jack freezes in the middle of his contemplation, eyes swiveling before latching onto Hannibal’s own. “But there are other people she’d trust her life with.”

Hannibal furrows his brows together lightly, permitting his movements to depict a reluctant bewilderment. 

Jack is eyeing him the way a hunter does his ensnared prey. Hannibal revels in the light of satisfaction gleaming in the man’s eyes.

“I just remembered that you owe me a favor,” Jack’s words are blithe, but the trace of authority in them compels Hannibal to scoff in his mind. “Will you help me get Graham out on the field again? I'm sure Alana will listen to whatever you have to say.”

The conversation is moving in direction Hannibal wants it to go; however, this is not the optimal result. Albeit, with this too he can insert himself into Will Graham’s life, but it’s been made clear the man loathes physicians who crudely dig at his mind.

“While it is true Alana will not contest my professional decision,” Jack’s despondency is the key to the labyrinth Hannibal has constructed and he needs only to impel the man a bit more to trap him. “What is it that makes you feel Will Graham will listen to what I have to say?”

Jack shrugs, sipping his wine wearily as he waves his other hand Hannibal’s way.

“You’re good at this stuff,” Jack’s elaboration doesn’t disclose its real intent, and Hannibal is alerted to recession of the drug. “There’s no denying you’ve got the right skills for this. You can look at Graham’s mental and physical problems and clear him for work.”

Jack, taking the pieces offered to him, has formed his thoughts accurately as Hannibal had anticipated. The predator in the room exults in the becoming of his scheme. 

Hannibal nods his acquiescence to Jack’s demand.

“When’s the earliest you can go see Graham?” Jack leans forward, eyes vibrant with fervor. “I need him out in the field by tomorrow, if you can.”

Hannibal leans back and swirls his wine, letting it eddy in its vessel of glass, watching the fluid travel along the curved planes with a languorous sangria tone.

“Tomorrow morning. Alone, if you will, Jack,” Hannibal asserts. “I would like to present no other hostilities to an already unusually neurotic man.”

Jack nods, assenting to Hannibal’s stipulations.

 

“If that is all,” Hannibal trails off. “Let us proceed to dinner.”  
\---

Hannibal patiently waits until Jack’s carriage is no longer visible from his balcony window before retreating to his bedroom to perform his nightly ablutions.

As he lets the spray cascade down his body, Hannibal recalls how Will had let him control their encounter. The image of a subservient, passionate Ganymede is enough to set Hannibal into a rage of lust. The disarray of faintly damp curls, raw desire suspended in enlarged irises, mouth parted in want is all Hannibal envisions as he breathes harshly under the stream of water caressing him, body quivering. He sees his hands snarled in the umber curls, tugging as their blood-doused tongues meet in a Bacchanalian dance causing his prey to quaver, bound, and submit to Hannibal’s brutal attention, filling the air with needy noises complimenting the fragrance of their first kill.

He thinks of how right it will finally feel when he has the empath wound taut around him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this is kinda late guys! this chapter lays foundation for will/hanni's relationship in the future chapters! this chapter is not beta read, so all mistakes are mine :)

Situated in Wolf Trap, approaching the tree line of Baltimore Woods, which creeps nearer every year, a solitary cottage, sunk in the damp ruddy brown of the earth, groans at the buffeting chilly wind. A fairly dilapidated house, constructed with fading, grooved cedar irradiated by the dim illumination of its scant lamps.

No one dares approach the decrepit establishment or its tenants, not while the woods twist and creak unnervingly just beyond the grass.

By bearing witness to the singularly dismaying agony of Will Graham, the house had become a pivotal safe haven for the distraught man. It harbored the empath from forest and city, two alluring poles in a deadly fixture for Will Graham’s mind. It kept the poor man appropriately isolated, caged within doors seamless with walls, fitted with arduous locks, and barred windows. 

More relevantly, the house retains secrets that would make a holy Samaritan shy away. Nightmares, creations of the empath’s mind, his nighttime endeavors, all ingrained in the grooves of the tight cedar planks.

The house continues to stand sentinel even as, at daybreak where the sun strains to climb over the canopy of the woods, a sophisticated, ornamented carriage settles in the yard. A striking nobleman steps out, wicker basket in hand, and eyes the house with an incomprehensible gaze.

It lets its porch steps creak in distress as the visitor draws closer to the door, shoulders and thighs primed and drawn with care and intent of a predator pursuing its prey. The cedar house resonates with the strong, brisk knocks as it wearily resigns its ward to the peril on its porch.

\---

Will Graham lives a largely sleep devoid life, plagued in hordes by eerie images and hallucinations his mind conjures, aided by his unexplained ailment. There are few nights where he sleeps enough and even less where he sleeps uninterrupted, the duration of the night. Since the contract with the Royal Guard, sleep has become a luxury commodity and his eyes, however drained, never shut, apprehensive of the reality that lies beneath his lids, ready to drip into his sockets lest he close them.

Bleary and so immensely drained that his limbs throb from shifting his position, Will does not hear the faint first knocks as he tosses and turns, trying to offer respite to his sluggish body. 

It is only on the third try his visitor succeeds in seizing his attention. His body tenses further as the visitor knocks again, the rapid thundering of his heart against the feeble ribs deafening him as he rises and makes his way to the door, dogs nearly tripping him and sending himself to an early passing.

He fumbles with the abundant intense latches for a good while, before at last, sliding them out. Mind clouding with weariness, he overlooks all caution and in tetchiness at his peaceful life breached upon- pulls the door open nearly all the way, baring all.

“Hello, Will.”

Will’s throat runs dry.

Dr. Hannibal Lecter stands on his porch, addressing him as longstanding friends do.

The doctor is garbed in the murkiest of red- oxblood- with an inky ebony overcoat that make the shoulders nearly as jagged as a blade against the backdrop of the woods and the pastel cerulean expanse above it. Ruddy eyes, observing in minor curiosity, catch Will’s attention and he turns his own away in swiftness, having seen ample enough once an intimation of what lay in their depths.

“I- I'm sorry?” Will stutters from his incapacity to grasp the situation.

The empath is dressed in velvety, sheer linen top and dusky Aegean trousers, and Hannibal permits his gaze to meander, concern masking his intent. He is abundantly rewarded by the sight of hardened nubs resting against the cream top, denting it and peeking its light color through the thin fabric- his grip on the handle of the wicker basket constricts imperceptibly as his fingers long to grasp one nub and twist it, to allow his palate to savor the succulent sounds of an empath in tormented passion, gasping in his vice like grip, curls bounding as the head rises and the mouth liberates from it fluttering sounds of depravity.

Offering a light smile, Hannibal bares the basket.

“May I come in, Will?” he inquires graciously. Hannibal requires of Will the consensual trust to enter not only into the house but also to foray into his mind. He observes in amusement as the groggy man’s eyes travel to the wicker basket, and his mind waits with raised hackles as the prey settles gradually upon the bait.

“Yeah, so- sorry,” Will stammers, taken aback by the arrival of the man that has been plaguing his thoughts for the last week. He leads them both into the living room, returned to its old disorderly, unheeded state. “Give me a minute.”

With a callous gratification, Hannibal watches Will strain to execute even the simplest of tasks, savoring the effect the illness has on the empath. The worse the struggle, the enhanced the dependence of the man on Hannibal, and this deliberation is enough to hurl the physician into a haze of domineering relish. Refraining from assisting, Hannibal simply settles down onto the couch as soon as it is cleared, delighting in the flush across Will’s ashen cheeks.

Knowing Will’s psyche, Hannibal is conscious this action has been translated as an indication of equality, bereft of the crushing sympathy the man is abhorrent of.

Will continues to hustle about the room, not wanting to confront the man seated on his couch, who subtly views him under the pretext of worry.

It takes him time to compose his hurrying heart.

When he’s necessarily perceptive, but still wary and disoriented, Will takes a seat opposite the man on a worn out arm chair.

“I am aware this is a particularly unorthodox manner of introducing myself,” the doctor begins; legs crossed smartly and hands grasped in his lap. Will can sense no workable emotion from the voice, both the bearing and actions are ineffectively fluid and bland, he can read nothing from such a compact wall of ambiguity that his mind has grown affectionate of, and Will wonders what sort of development this is. “However, a mutual associate of ours, Jack Crawford, has requested that I make this particular house call in urgency.”

Will stiffens, resentment seeping across his body, hands quivering and legs falling limp against the couch.

“So you’re the ‘someone’ Jack had in mind huh?” he states banally, bitter inwardly that the relationship will progress no further now that Jack Crawford’s dug his claws into it.

“You were mentioned only late into the night yesterday, and upon discovering my empty schedule, he insisted it a critical manner,” Hannibal elucidates, recognizing Will pulling away from him. “I came of my own volition Will, not only fretful for  
your state, but eager to make your acquaintance, as I have been from the day we originally encountered each other.”

The last sentence has the premeditated effect and Will blinks rapidly in astonishment, endeavoring in vain to guise his want. Hannibal’s tongue grazes the tip of his teeth and presses against them as the yearning alights in his breast, heavy upon being roused from stagnation.

“Well, I'm fine,” Will mutters, picking at a strand in his chair, cynical of the doctor’s attraction in an uncommon oddity like himself. He lets his eyes stray to the basket, desiring they rise further to picture Hannibal himself, but quells it, bogged down by uncertainty of the doctor’s purpose. “You don't need to trouble yourself to watch me all the time.”

Hannibal pardons this fabrication, palpable is the misery on the man: dark circles sagging under lashes, gaunt face with pasty thin cheeks, expression dismal from fatigue seeping through the muscles and wearing the man down. Will now appears nothing like the lustrous Ganymede Hannibal had caught shuffling across the footpath, illumined under the golden gleam of the buzzing streetlamp.

“I came intending to aid you in account of Jack’s description of your ailment,” Hannibal lets a modest fragment of the truth slip and gazes fleetingly at the basket on the table, recognizing the alteration in his victim’s posture by the arrival of guilt. “Is it not allowed for two men such as you and I to partake in natural conversation devoid of other motives?”

Will tussles with the fancy of having the doctor as a colleague. He’s attentive to the obscure depths of the man’s nature, but is not truly aware of its magnitude. The unanticipated visit has caught him off guard; he’s not sufficiently steady to formulate a sound verdict. Furthermore, having gone all night wide-awake and petrified, he is ravenous and still inept at rational deliberation.

Nodding abashedly in assent, Will rises to take the wicker hamper to set up when he is duly hindered by the doctor.

“Perhaps it would be best if I set up,” Hannibal states slightly ruefully. “It will provide you ample time to go through your morning ablutions.”

Cheeks dusted cerise in embarrassment, Will withdraws to his bedroom. Hannibal eyes him, contented at the product of their rather scattered exchange. He has much more to put into play during breakfast.

The dining table, cedar like the rest of the house, but a much darker tone, is preserved rather well through its shortage of usage. Hannibal sets up his dish on fresh plates: monk’s beard, anchovy butter and chicken, arrayed painstakingly refined to Hannibal’s liking and palate.

Just as he permits the broth to slide down the raised ridges on the deep sunflower chicken, Will stumbles in. Umber curls are damp, plastered to the forehead and wide eyes regard in awe the dishes placed on the table as the man awkwardly shuffles near the counter.

“That- should we eat it?” Will is definite that this plate comprises high society food suited for neither his palate nor his stomach.

Hannibal dismisses the transgression; he can sense evidently the reverence the younger man has for his forte, knows the man will eat whatsoever Hannibal may elect to place in front of him.

“Would you fill the glasses?” Hannibal requests, arranging the sparse cutlery the empath has precisely next to the dishes. As Will passes to the counter to take on the task, Hannibal alters his bearing; keen to view Will make an effort to achieve a given duty.

He is immeasurably gratified when Will devotes his entire attention to the task, choosy with glasses- filling them and a pitcher to the brim before placing them clumsily in proportion to Hannibal’s own arrangements on the table. Will keeps his eyes away, having noticed subtle amendments in Hannibal’s demeanor, still solid and unrelenting, but with erotic connotations. His body struggles not to tremble and in its place, sends warm waves down its length.

“So, why’d you come all the way out here?” Will questions; keen to divert the doctor’s consuming gaze. Will is aware he very much wants to learn of a motive not involving Jack Crawford.

I crave for you, Hannibal’s tongue traces out within the narrows of the warmed mouth, I want to descend into you, profound, and with everything I have.

Instead, he lets his thumb brush against the grooved tabletop, allowing the impression of a brooding man.

“To be brutally honest, my fascination with you is great,” Will’s adulation is the seamless basis to fabricate upon, conviction and susceptibility all drawn from the sentiments the man ascribes to Hannibal from the carriage ride. A little haven is what the empath wishes and Hannibal wants to offer nothing less to the man, albeit with a few veiled constraints. “I had intended to seek you out as soon as I could afford to. Never did I imagine chancing upon you in such manner. I had meant to bring us together quite differently.”

Will flames at the remorse in Hannibal’s voice, this consideration is fresh and revitalizing, and he grows lightheaded from the train of thought.

“Please sit, Will,” Hannibal draws out the chair slowly. “The heat will soon recede from the dish and it will lose it tender texture.”

“Sorry,” Will worries his lips as he slides into the chair, the aroma of the dish wafting his senses as soon as he brings himself close to the table. He cannot fathom the objective of the doctor to bring him this dish, which he knows from his scattered experiences at classy physician affairs, is a masterwork. Taking a bite, he elates in the flavors slithering down his throat, juiced from the tender chicken, aware of the scarcity of such an extravagance in his life. “I-”

With his eyes closed in veneration of the taste, he is unable to foresee Hannibal leaning over and collecting the dribbling broth on his chin with a thumb.

Will stills in fright, in sheer fright of the innocuous deed.

“It would stain,” Hannibal eyes the light top, unrepentant, and raises the thumb to his mouth, letting his tongue peek out to lap at the broth. “And there are no napkins at hand.”

Hannibal relishes Will’s distress at the seemingly personal nature of the action, the fluttering of lashes, the bobbing of Will’s Adam’s apple, the stunned, slightly parted mouth: the mind stretching like a balloon in danger of tearing holes as it toils to generate a credible justification only to snap back to its original state in failure. 

Will opens his mouth once, twice, to react, but is unable to articulate plainly what he feels, and resigns. He sips his soup, hands quivering. He’s high at the contact, but also alarmed out of his skull.

Hannibal Lecter is a creature who knows he will obtain his aims irrespective of any hindrance in his path. In his want for Will Graham, save for the empath’s greenness and his disorder - both inconsequential matters to a man like Hannibal- there are none. 

Soft cloth napkins sit gently at the bottom of Hannibal’s basket, discarded in the corner of the counter, along with Will’s own.

\---

The blunt tremors of a horse’s hooves thudding against the damp earth startles Will out of the idyllic lull he’d slipped into during breakfast, Hannibal sitting reserved to allow Will to savor this quiet instance, bearing in mind they would later broach topics designed to agitate.

Harsh banging against the door sets Will’s mind off into a frenzy, and he shivers in trepidation of what lies beyond the door.

Hannibal offers Will a tight smile before getting up to receive the caller, displeased at the crude conduct exhibited. He’s pleased at the minute twitches Will offers as restrained reactions to the external environment while still straining miserably to regulate the degree of his ailment.

“I will attend to it,” Hannibal soothes, striding out of the kitchen. “Upon return I shall serve you another course.”

Will observes out of the corner of his eye as the doctor opens the door in appropriate margin and talks in short curt tone to the visitor. There is no loathing, no show of the transparent aversion Will had read from the man’s mind, nothing. The door shuts with a soft click and Will rushes to finish his first serving.

“I apologize,” Hannibal pauses adjacent to Will’s chair. “It seems Jack Crawford requires you immediately.”

Incredulity and nausea flits through Will. Another kill with such fleeting interlude only denotes a much greater ploy, with much grander stakes than anyone has fathomed.

“I can't go,” Will tears his mind away from his persuasive thoughts, impatient to fill in pieces of the puzzle. “I'm not allowed and Jack knows to stay away.”

“It may be then why I have been requested to attend as well, to act as your mediator,” Hannibal can see the primitive drive surging up in the empath, who, to Hannibal’s contentment, has begun to apprehend the intricacy of the game he is now embroiled in. “Under my supervision, you may perform and regulate your skills with less consequence.”

“You can't help me,” Will laughs resentfully.

“Note,” Hannibal states dryly, not at all amused at Will’s perception of his fortune under Hannibal’s experienced hands, knowing the empath could -in due time and with suitable assistance - be exempt from the mortal realm in the great chain of  
being. “I did not indicate any capability of curing you or molding you to be normal, as others are rushed to do.”

Will hesitates, undisputable is that he wants to go, but he also desires to evade severe collapse, primarily those that require half a week or more of recovery. Hannibal Lecter, Will is sure, works marvels by setting Will’s mind at ease by just his presence. In good faith, Will is inclined to accept as true the understanding of the man’s aptitude to create miracles of phenomenal proportions when working with intent, and so, reluctantly agrees.

“Alright, but there’s got to be limits on how far Jack can push me,” Will warns, still wary of the prowling creature under the meat suit. “I can't really do so much at such short intervals, like this.”

“I understand,” Hannibal’s voice is indulgent and intimate and Will suddenly considers himself modest in its face, like a petulant child recognizing how menial the task is they have been testy for hours about. “Get dressed. I shall clear everything while I wait.”

Strong hands reach over Will’s shoulder to take the near empty plate and he is excessively mindful of the contact. Not direct, but so maddeningly near that if Will were to shift his shoulders, they would inevitably brush together. This thought, combined with the forceful visions he has had of the doctor since their fateful meeting, sets Will off so badly he springs from his chair with a hasty voicing of gratitude and apology and essentially sprints to his bedroom, wanting to conceal himself from the man.

Hannibal’s smile is wretchedly pleased as he infers Will’s thoughts from this action, packing his things and restoring Will’s kitchen to its ordinary state, placing the soft napkins in an odd spot in a drawer.

Inside the room, Will struggles to dress, for once baffled by his meager assortment of clothes. Wanting to seem decent in the attendance of the doctor, he combs to substandard results and even coordinates his clothing before noticing his coat is missing, lying in the living room where he had deposited it a few days ago upon his arrival.

When Will shyly shuffles out of his room, trailed by several of his dogs, Hannibal is forced to regard him for more than a mere moment, any pretense of sustaining a somewhat professional affiliation departs from his mind. 

Hannibal’s eyes find it testing to turn away even as the empath frantically hunts for his coat, aware the additional effort is meant to please him. Returning to his logics, he spots the coat instantly, buried in the edge of a chair near a bookshelf.

“Will,” Hannibal suggests he has located the coat, taking it out and tidying it for the man before summoning him close. He has to pacify his hunger when Will obeys flustered, without delay, wearing an air of gratitude. “Come.”

Shuffling forward awkwardly, Will is curious as to what Hannibal intends to point out about his worn out, dirty coat.

“Raise your arms, Will,” Hannibal instructs gently, and Will raises them in mute surprise. “Good.”

The term of approval makes Will shiver in repressed gratification. Hannibal slides the coat over toned arms and lightly pats it down. The strokes are smooth, yet sturdy, running over Will’s tensed shoulder before sliding the length of the arm to brush against Will’s trembling hands.

Will chokes on his saliva for a brief second when he feels the light touch of skin on his.

Content, Hannibal withdraws his sensory assault, knowing it will be of ample value to him subsequently.

“Come,” he says, picking up his basket and leading the way. “Jack would prefer we arrive quickly.”

\---

Will climbs out of the carriage, further improved in spirit than he has been for the past half week, revitalized by the resolute wall that is Hannibal’s mind. Despite his slightly enhanced disposition, he repents coming and in fact, is reluctant to face this second and possibly more grisly kill. 

He shadows Hannibal, gracelessly trailing the physician, who strides through the little camp with paramount surety and innate refinement. Admiration wells up in him, unbidden, as Hannibal speaks for him in rare occasions, steering them to  
Jack Crawford, who waits at the tent nearest the edge of the woods.

“Hannibal,” Jack greets, seeing in curious incredulity as Will sticks to the physician. “Graham.”

Will jerks his head in reply.

“Right, so he’s prepared for this?” Crawford asks Hannibal, tone demanding but precautious.

“Not so much as I am prepared to aid him if necessary,” Hannibal states smoothly, ensuring his proximity to Will. This is an apt moment to let Jack comprehend how much sway he has over the empath.

Jack eyes them both apprehensively for a moment before beckoning for them to follow.

“We haven’t identified who she is yet,” Jack reports. “Around 19, young age, different from the other victims. Killed maybe around early morning today, and cause of death is still undetermined but I'm thinking all the missing organs are a bigger concern.”

Hannibal’s fervor climbs as they amble closer to the scene of the crime.

“Right, okay,” Jack lets them all come to a halt, facing of a wall of cloth billowing with the gusts, acting as a pitiable barrier between trees and the atrocity beyond. “A little warning for you Graham, this one is much worse.”

Will nods in irritation. Regardless of the ghastly nature, it is a surety that Jack Crawford will push him to use his skills, and inescapably, it will seep into his personal life. There is nothing to brace for, rather, Will attempts to resign to his fate and is left unnerved in his own skin upon his failure to do so.

Beyond the cloth is a great twisted tree with colossal wormy roots that span the dry floor of the forest. Two of these form an oval coffin shape, its contents thrusting bile up Will’s throat.

A girl lay in the depression, sunken slightly in the pool of damp blood, viscous in the progression of drying, nude as the day she was born, ankles and arms tied to register the position stiff with intertwining snakes. Her hollowed breast  
contained within it a piglet, and below it, hands clasped lightly. A wave of white lotuses conceals her hips and genitals, descending from the sides into the red sea below. 

The salty stench of blood floods Will’s senses as he takes in the offering. No other word is thoroughly suited for this display.

“What does this mean?” Jack asks hastily, eager to grasp the meaning behind the kill and employ it in their pursuit of the murderer.

Will’s mind works frantically with the provided evidences.

“No,” he whispers, dismayed. “This is an offering, a sort of appeasement.”

“A pagan ritual?” Jack frowns. “Doesn’t seem the earlier murders.”

“It’s not pagan,” Will clarifies. “This is addressed to somebody. She’s just a vessel for the real message: pigs are usually considered symbols of fertility and the placement of the hands- that’s for guidance. The person or the body, it’s not significant, it’s just a box. It’s a medium for what the killer wants to portray.”

“Fuck, and?”

Will resists for a moment. 

“He’s building up to something,” Will states, trying to fill in the empty pieces of the web his mind has already begun to weave. “There’s something he wants, something he’s trying to- to show. You should look past these bodies to see a bigger picture.”

“And what exactly is that?” Jack snaps, exasperated at Will’s ambiguous replies.

“I don't know,” Will bites out. “He gives me only a little to work with, and everything else is stuff that I see. It takes me time to figure out what exactly they mean to him.”

“Should we not focus on finding the recipient?” Hannibal is sternly inclined to sew Jack’s skin shut over his mouth, which insofar has only obstructed Will from distinguishing the message visibly. Without his own presence here, it is clear Will would have been deterred from perceiving the true missive.

Will turns to him, brows furrowing.

“We don't have any clue to who the killer even is, so how do you think we can manage that?” Will asks, bewildered.

“It is merely a passing thought,” Hannibal reassures. At this moment, it matters not that Jack is watching them both, it is vital Will see what is meant only for his eyes. The empath’s response will establish a course for Hannibal’s design. “The person for whom this is intended would be better suited to interpret it.”

“Do what he says,” Jack has comprehended the idea, and Hannibal is aware that the man will not yield until it is pushed through. “Stop thinking like the killer for a minute and think like you’re the one he meant to give it to.”

Hannibal watches Will fixedly, letting unease appear on his face whilst he is simply keen to see the reaction his prey has to being courted. He does not like the tone Jack takes with Will, but reserves his prejudices against Jack for later use.

Will is unsettled by the request, but complies, used to being expended without any care given to his condition.

Jack Crawford gets to witness Will Graham crumble for the second time, and spectacularly so, in this particular instance.

The empath begins to shiver initially, eyes blinking rapidly at an image only he can see. Hands begin to wring themselves, rubbing the skin until trickle crimson and pink before rising to his eyes, pressing harshly against them. Will chokes at the thoughts and stumbles back, hands flailing for purchase as he struggles to breathe. 

Hannibal catches Will by his back and arm, cradling the man in his sturdy hold. He lets one of hands brush the empath’s curls, placing it against the heated temple, grounding the man. Hannibal cares not for Jack or the offering, but for the heady, sweet scent of fear emanating from Will. So close is Hannibal that he can taste it condensing in his slightly parted mouth.

“Will,” Hannibal calls loudly for the benefit of a startled, distraught Jack. “Will!”

He drops low in tone, leaning down to let his mouth brush against the tip of Will’s ear, letting airy curls tickle it. He calls the empath’s name again- this time pausing to brush his tongue against the earlobe. The taste of Will Graham breaks on his tongue like a filled toffy, spreading sanguine and thick. Swallowing, Hannibal rises, shifting an incoherent Will to shift him to the carriage.

“I shall attend to him,” Hannibal assures Jack . “I will send a missive when he has improved.”

Jack is evidently reassured.

“Thanks,” he grunts at Hannibal, and waves at Will. “Let me know when he’s better.”

\---

Will is not entirely conscious of anything, he has no presence but is still aware of some things albeit indistinctly: noises and touch. There is someone enfolding him, stroking him, facilitating his convalescence from the episode. Languidly, Will leans into the embrace even as he feels smothered in the confinement, willing to find his grounding. He lets his mouth open lax as something traces his lips before dipping inside to stroke his tongue.

His jaw is gripped forcefully as the pressure on his tongue increases, and he exerts to breathe around it when yet another substantial heaviness settled on his chest. Will frantically flails in his haze before taking a deep breath, regurgitating dryly from the intrusion in his mouth before jerking dimly.

Spots dancing before his eyes, he endeavors to orient himself and notices he is in a carriage, leaning under the crook of someone’s arm, nearly sleeping on his or her lap.

“We are approaching my estate, Will,” an accented voice cuts in. “You require proper food and rest.”

Hannibal Lecter, Will thinks wildly. He does not wish to be left unaided with a predatory creature such as this, but he can appreciate the value of the man’s company, his illness seems to bend to the man’s resolve. Whatever it is the man has prearranged for him, Will knows today is going to be a day of recuperation, so he nods drowsily before dropping off again.

Hannibal waits a great while before persisting in his ministrations.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry guys for the delay, finals are coming up and I need to apply for an internship; it's all too hectic. I've planned out the plot, but since finals are coming up, my beta is gone gone gone, so my work won't be as great as chapter two, so if you want to point out any mistake or loopholes, you're free to do so! Constructive criticism is welcome, but no flames since I type these out in between lecture hours. The unbeta'd version is up but I'll post the proofread one later, I'm just putting this out there so you guys don't have to wait too long :)

Will wakes with heavy limbs, sunken in silk clouds, tired more so than he’s ever been, but of a different sort with an undertone of recuperation thrumming in his limbs. Bleary eyelids shift lethargically, unable to stay open for more than a few short moments, drawn down by want of sleep. He props himself up on an unsteady elbow, attempting to comprehend his surroundings; unrecognizable are the striking arras lining the walls, the room is laden in the affluence of antiques worth more than his empathic being.

A soft clinking of china fills his ears as he groggily observes the setting, apprehensive towards the high-count sheets, exquisite draperies and the lacquered wooden floor. As he shifts his eyes to the dulled light struggling through the curtained windows, Will comes face to face with his seemingly gracious host.

“Good morning, Will,” Hannibal Lecter greets him, pouring a steady stream of glistening, transparent golden liquid into a delicate, ornate teacup. “I am aware you will not stay with me for long, therefore your consumption of the infused tea is required before you lapse into sleep once more. Do drink, Will, for only then shall I take leave.”

Will lets the words slide over him, disinterested and overruled by the hazy disposition of a half woken deadbeat, and instead allows his eyes to meander over the doctor, taking note of the man, poised perfectly even within his abode, where most men let their vices roam unhindered. His chest tightens unpredictably as he eyes veined hands deftly gripping a teacup; his empathy has hinted at the capabilities of the doctor should he wish to assert it. Will buries his face in the pillow, remaining swathed until a hand runs across the nape of his neck, teasing at the resting strands of hair, caressing gently at his skin; the pseudo massage turns him languid, before retreating.

The hands extend towards him again after a few moments, carrying with them the cup of warm tea that permeates Will’s senses, all of them eager to complete this ordeal and return to slumber. He reaches towards the cup woozily, unable to grasp it sturdily with his sluggish fingers. Fingers trace over his before molding them into the shape of the cup, aiding his grip.

“You are at my estate, Will,” Hannibal apprises Will as he drinks; leisurely and with all the lethargy of a man roused from the dead. “I thought it prudent since I am best equipped to aid in your recovery. I have taken the liberty to send someone to care for your dogs.”

The warm tea tides down his throat in great gradual gulps, the essence covering his entire mouth and seeping into its fleshy cavern, and rendering it anesthetized. Will extends his tongue over the muted skin, a tingling trailing the muscles’ path. The biting aroma of the chamomile drives away all thought and Will lets his muscles all slacken as he finishes his tea heeding echoes of nature away outside his window.

Waiting tolerantly as Will drinks, Hannibal views with a devoted, covetous sense of onus the oleander lips tainted with the rich hue of the tea and the shift of the Adam’s apple as Will swallows in great drafts. Wanting without delay to sink thick claws into tender flesh and emotion, to clasp a pulsing heart in the slippery embrace of his coated hands, is an fervor within him. Raring for an equal, Hannibal is conscious of his own wants: an equivalent truly empathetic of him to instigate a rare bond. 

Though the empath remains drained in movements, Will has notably recovered as consequence of an infusion Hannibal had imbued him with covertly, the cause of the prominently composed slumber, something the empath will surely ascribe to Hannibal himself; a culmination of the design. Flushes of salmon pulse on pale skin; bearing tints of rogue; Hannibal desires to lathe his tongue over, to taste the pounding blood overwhelming close under the thin layer of skin.

Hannibal views the empath patiently, immersed in the vision of Will so raw, at the exposed malleability of the man. Will parts his lips as he sips the last golden swirls of the tea, the inhaled air reminiscent of the flower infused, wholly oblivious in fatigue of Hannibal’s set eyes.

Hannibal reaches forward, startling the sleepy man as he strokes Will’s wrist for a moment, savoring the start in the pulse he ascertains from his actions. A ceaseless rush of blood over a cliff, tumbling down the jagged ascend with cutting, lethal sound envelops Will as he feels fingers trace his pulse point, yet in his exhaustion, refrains from objecting and remains stagnant.

The fingers escalate in their tempo, yet remain light, on the edge of yielding down into his skin, the soft brush rather consoling to the drowsy empath, who wobbles faintly as he endeavors to turn his gaze to Hannibal, who is nothing more than subdued gray-blue fuzz.

Hannibal observes this all carefully, taking note of the fluttering eyelids and dizzy tenor the man’s movements have swiftly adopted. He pats down the pillows as Will reclines into the sheets, eyes closing and limbs falling lax due to the man’s inability to govern them effectively owing to the sleep settling in heavily in his form. Hannibal pauses as he draws up the sheets, eyes tracing the hollows under the man’s eyes to the slightly parted dried lips breathing in out steadily with the barest of tremors.

Something for later, he muses, brushing his thumb across one supple, tinted cheek before acquiescing to his desire. With the grace obtained from inimitable familiarity, Hannibal lets his head descend till is a mere breath away from the pounding blood calling primitively from Will’s cheeks. He inhales deeply, letting his eyes close for a brief moment.

His tongue ghosts over the skin, taste buds quivering at the rich fragrance of Will Graham rising to stagnation above; it migrates through whilst absorbing the taste. Hannibal’s eyes are slits of arduous desire; the empath is suited best to stand alongside Hannibal, inventively adorned in the life of the contemptible, rendered sustenance in their appropriate dismissal from a worthless existence.

Will Graham’s pliant cheeks give way to Hannibal’s refined tongue, voracious in its exploration; his hands cradle the back of Will’s head, forcing it into Hannibal’s mouth as he exults in the essence of Will.  
Perhaps it is a good thing the tea was devised to render the empath unconscious for the cycle of another day.

\---

When Will wakes next, dawn breaks beyond the arches of glass screening one side of his room, bathing his face and the sheets in dapples of light. The exhaustion is absent, substituted by freshness evident in his skin’s inhalation of the crisp emergent air.

The first thing discernable is his cheeks are a tad swollen, but shrugging in unconcern, he attributes it to the cold weather.  
He shifts idly in bed, pondering on the day’s proceedings; he vaguely recollects Hannibal having tended to the concerns of his house and hounds so there is indeed no imminent task to hasten him out of bed. A foreign musk pervades his senses as he moves to the far right of the bed; Will tilts his head to the pillow and upon the heady scent rushing into his, recoils, heart throbbing in his throat.

Freeing his mind of such notions, he rises, breathing deeply the distinct, rich dawn air as he makes his way to the bathroom to tend to his morning ablutions, which he completes leisurely: letting the chilled water sink into his skin, rising in spirit- that is, to the constant wretched level he sustains every other ordinary day- before he steps out.

Will had in the beginning considered dressing to return home instantly, aiming to leave before Hannibal woke; troubled at being in the man’s presence. However, when he does turn to the bed, he spots a fresh array of clothes in the subtlest of blues laid out, arresting his plans. Will moves towards the bed, hands reaching out to brush the house clothes delicately and shudders from tentative amazement as his fingertips travel seamlessly, gliding upon rich fabric, rousing temporary ripples. He stares at the clothes in trepidation before guilt goads him into donning it, and the thought of the doctor being up himself startlingly spurs Will into employing effort into his appearance.

Brushing the palms of his hands down the shirt fretfully, Will departs from his room, intent on traversing the expanse of the house to locate his host.

Warily, Will walks around the house, eyes darting to the affluent items placed prudently to divert the eyes from the smothering, caged nature of the home. He stumbles to what he reasons is a massive study, with a large hearth and several couches, chaise lounges, and a ladder leading to an expansive library above it on an elevated floor.

There is an open drawing book on the cedar desk that awakes his curiosity, and he makes his way to it, eyes fixated on the unfinished of drawing of what seems to be a man’s twanged body amidst a cluster of draping sheets.

“Will,” the familiar accented voice carries throughout the room and Will halts in his tracks, swiveling to face its owner, who gestures to a simple set up in the far end of the room. “I have prepared tea for us both. Please, take a seat.”

Will’s eyes dart back to the incomplete art before tearing himself away and trailing Hannibal to the quaint little set up near an arched window.

“I have prepared a light breakfast,” Hannibal voices as hands that had dominated Will’s dreams steadily pour tea. “It is in light of my deliberations of your food intake that I have elected to ease into heavier foods gradually.” 

Will says nothing, accepting the tea graciously. He is indeed wary of the doctor, still ambiguous in his latent desires and his design for Will, a palpable cause of unease for the empath. Undeniable is the fact that Will retains adulation and reverence for the man, brought about by the doctor’s dissembled acts regarded compassionate by Will. Hannibal Lecter’s singularly blank mind offers Will respite from his empathy, and combined with the treatment the man bestows upon him,   
Will is amply lost in inferring any concealed motives.

“When can I go home?” Will inquires tentatively, loath to raise the issue, having sensed Hannibal’s intent to hold him at the estate for an extensive stay.

Foreseeably, the doctor discounts the inquiry, instead sipping impassively at his own cup of tea.

“You have not yet fully recuperated, Will,” Hannibal elucidates deliberately, fingertips stroking the rim of teacup, asserting perceptible heaviness upon it. Will’s chest constricts and he turns his head away, fixing on the paisley pattern of the chaise lounge adjacent to the hearth. “I must insist that you remain under my care until I certify your ability to monitor yourself appropriately.”

“I'm fine,” Will mutters, teacup vibrating gently in the quivering of his own palms. “I bet my dogs aren’t.”

“I have arranged for a caretaker. There is no cause for alarm, Will.”

“Still,” Will murmurs softly, not wanting to dispute too heatedly with his cryptic benefactor. “I’d like to go home.”

“In due time,” Hannibal assures, inspecting Will mirroring his actions with the teacup. The melding of Will’s mind is a marvel he is going to have to invest in devotedly to mature his objectives of Will’s becoming; he needs only to oscillate the man enough that the duality will rescind into one transcendent individual. “There are some issues I must speak with you of.”

Will snorts imperceptibly, but it seems Hannibal is aware of what he has done as the man’s features tighten. Mortification builds up like water, filling capillary grooves of regret; Hannibal Lecter is one of the few who look past his ailments and make his acquaintance, and yet Will’s action so far have only been detrimental to this rare association. Sighing, Will rubs at his forehead severely, attempting to quell the birth of a concentrated migraine.

“What issues?”

Hannibal sets down his tea and leans forward, legs crossed smartly at the knee, a straight posture that Will trails his eyes upwards, landing on a built thigh. 

“In relation to the career you have with the Royal Guard,” Hannibal’s eyes are settled so unrelentingly on Will that the empath is rendered uneasy; his eyes dart neurotically and his lashes flutter in distress as he endeavors to salvage semblance of control over himself. “As it is destructive towards your mental and physical health, I have drawn up certain ways, which, in its assimilation into your daily life, will aid in mitigating some of the immediate effects of your occupation.”

“Yeah?” Will grunts, not at all pleased with the turn their exchange has taken; he loathes the drivel that physicians produce: prescribing medicine, endorsing medical and research practices, requesting him to surrender some basic right or the other, and he is quite crushed to think Hannibal is the very same. Nevertheless, it being Hannibal, Will is upsettingly inclined to try. “What ways, exactly?”

“Employ your voice, loud and clear,” Hannibal elaborates, and Will’s brows furrow for this is an unusual clarification. “Otherwise, utilize your sense of touch, feel it invade your senses completely, and this will lessen your detachment from this world as it so often occurs.”

“How-” Will chokes out, stunned. He’s gone to lengths to keep buried his difficulties of disassociating with reality, and for someone so inclined towards maliciousness like Hannibal Lecter, whose desire for Will is oddly flagrant, to have possession of such knowledge sends a quake of anticipation of the potent peril of such through Will’s body. 

Granted the man’s profession requires a certain degree of dexterity, granted Will is aware of the extent of such dexterity; this is something he had not foreseen: a degree of exemplary performance from which Hannibal Lecter could then infer the extent of Will’s own abilities. Hannibal Lecter, at his will and fancy, could procure intimations of Will’s mind not even comprehensible by Will himself, and this petrifies the empath.

“Is it not evident?” Hannibal prompts lightly, and Will flushes in fright before returning to his cooling tea. 

The upset is still reverberating through his system; Will finding himself unable to counter and sips his tea the way terrified sheep tear out little clumps of grass.

“Alright okay,” Will replies after drawing a shuddering breath of pitiable confidence. “I’ll stay for a while; let’s go through this as fast as we can, and then I’ll head home.”

Hannibal eyes the distressed empath, heightened olfactory receptors swathed in the ripe scent of a looming migraine. Though the tea is aimed at mitigating the effects of such an ailment, is has also been infused with a particular substance Hannibal is quite fond of for inducing light episodes of disassociation and consequently, heavy sleep, triggered only if need be by the consumer’s agitation; a seamless mimic of what he discerns the empath’s larger illness generates- extraordinary grounds to cement his appeal for Will to remain at his estate.

“Alright,” Hannibal permits; conscious that by the end of the day, the onset of the infusion will fabricate a scenario that will extend no alternative for Will in the matter. 

They remain in silence as the tea descends to the bottom of the cups, sloshing against the tapering end, the darkened translucence captivating Will. Hannibal is aware of the tension wracking the younger man’s body and knows the tea will settle in to mitigate this, until the infusion seizes control.

“Shall we commence with grounding?” Hannibal is severely disposed to establish a dependency much like the one Zephyr had for Hyacinth in Will; yet wants to spare the empath of the same fate. It is imperative that Will fosters this rapidly, there rang already incessant chatter concerning the empath in higher circles of physicians in and around Baltimore. “Employable even amidst your episodes, it is a relevant method of locating yourself in present, occurring reality.”

Will studies the tealeaves absconded to the base of the cup.

“How sure are you about this?” Will inquiries bitterly. “Not to be rude, Dr. Lecter, but I’ve had plenty of physicians try their luck.”

Will rises from his couch, hands quivering, and creates patterns on the pliant carpet with his pacing.

“You said you weren’t trying to fix me,” Will accuses. “Just so you know; I’ve got a fair bit of knowledge about leeching physicians; none of them could handle me, in the end.”

Will’s voice articulates his resentment, not rage.

Hannibal rises and moves towards Will, withdrawn to the other end of the vast hall, hands immersed in running over the rungs of the ladder in his anguish. As he approaches the clearly bitter empath, Hannibal notes the hands trembling as they   
trace the patterns of the wood in the ladder.

“Will,” Hannibal illuminates his intentions, unwilling to let Will deem them as anything but compassionate. “These require nothing from you, they are simply methods you may implement to aid you in the initial stages of episodes in my absence.”  
Will falters in his ministrations upon catching the latter part of Hannibal’s justification.

“How do I know this is the truth?” Will questions, brows furrowed, neither in spite nor anger, but in despair. He reaches forward in feeling for Hannibal but contains himself at the right moment, withdrawing to slump into the ladder. “Nobody can find the answer, and you- yes, even you- with your knowledge and motives can’t figure out what’s wrong with me. You all like to play around with special cases like me.”

The ripened scent of the headache is pungent against Hannibal’s senses. The closer he moves to the distraught Will, the crisper the aroma is; Hannibal lingers to see his plans come to fruition, interfering only minimally to allow Will to drive himself to an impassioned frenzy, aided by the infusion in the tea.

“You, Jack,” Will mutters, arms crossing to clutch wildly at shoulders, drawing a closed figured. “You all want the same things from me.”

There are tears of infuriation in the man’s eyes, and Hannibal badly wants a taste, but refrains to allow the fever to build.

“How can I trust you?” Will cries out, eyes rising as far as Hannibal’s collar, a Windsor knot mocking him. “Maybe you want the same things as Chilton, even Alana.”

The cries burn now, an indication that Will is nearly entirely under the influence of the infusion. Hannibal stands, poised for action, awaiting the subtle shift in scent.

“What makes you different from them?” Will cries, frustrated at Hannibal’s stoicism, he has not a clue why he is behaving such, and attributes it to the overwhelming pressure he’s been under recently and the influence of the crimes.

Abruptly, a mellow taste of dullness permeates Hannibal’s senses.

Hannibal moves with the grace of a predator cornering prey, nonchalant and calculated; closing in on Will, who instantly arches against the ladder. Hannibal places one hand on Will’s forehead, drawing back the hair in a fabricated check for fever or other signifiers of hallucinatory episodes.

“Will,” Hannibal inquires. “Can you tell me where you are?”

Will does not answer, and in true fashion of someone altered by the infusion, stares sluggishly at Hannibal.

“Will,” Hannibal calls again to confirm that the man is disoriented. “Will!”

Will slumps against the ladder, vaguely aware of Hannibal calling his name. He reaches out a heavy hand to twist in the suit of the man in futility, unable to grasp anything and therefore rising to strong shoulders, covered, before rising to the nape, resting against it. His head lolls back unsolicited, and Will’s world start to bleed a darker palate, devoid of the colors of the early morn.

“Hann-” Will chokes out, fingers curling into the hair of the physician as he attempts to attain solid ground.

A cool hand lays itself on Will’s forehead, soothing his darting eyes, and snapping lashes as he toils to ground himself. Hannibal is merely a hazy figure with mahogany eyes that to Will seem to possess unfathomable depth. Will’s other hand rises to clasp Hannibal’s hand on his forehead, holding it and pressing it in deeper, sensing the physician’s hand underneath his own, the thrum of the collected pulse and the silken skin. 

“Hannibal-” Will breathes, assenting dimly that his attack may not be over and submitting to the will of the physician, who so far, has done Will nothing but good, and slumps forward into the embrace of the older man. “Plea-”

Strong arms wrap around him, one hand rising to the back of his neck, caressing his hairs, and Will slowly becomes aware of the fact he is resignedly slumping in the arms of Jack’s Crawford’s esteemed physician.

“To bed, Will,” Hannibal instructs. Will is too far gone to respond and raises his head enough that it is cradled within the crook of Hannibal’s neck; the comfort altogether new for Will, who has never had such contact with anyone. 

\---

Hannibal tucks in the near delirious man religiously, taking care to remove any uncomfortable article of clothing, which is not so difficult since Will himself is indolently shredding it. This dependency is unusual, Hannibal notes; perhaps the man had already been consenting of Hannibal as a steadfast benefactor before he was accosted by Jack Crawford; and only in light of the recent developments with the Royal Guard, his notions towards Hannibal had been altered.

This thought incenses Hannibal for a moment; the idea of Jack Crawford coming between them irks Hannibal greatly. 

Will’s hand grasping weakly at his suit returns Hannibal’s attention to the present scene, wherein Will is having trouble letting go of Hannibal.

“Shh, dear Will,” Hannibal prompts, letting one hand settle on Will’s shoulder and the other rising to cup the top of the empath’s head. “Shh-”

Such adverse reactions had only been a desire and seemed impossible granted Will Graham’s meticulous regime considering his ailment; Hannibal exults in this revelation of complete trust and dependency: excellent material to mold the empath into his transcendent image.

Will tilts his head back, eyes slits and nearly closed as he gazes upon Hannibal, but does not see him as both trembling hands find purchase in Hannibal’s suit. The empath’s mouth is slightly open: intakes of short breaths characterize the short spastic bursts tormenting the thin body in Hannibal’s arms.

Leaning forward, Hannibal breathes with Will, their short breathes mingling in the cold air of the morning. Hannibal lets his mouth roam, lips traversing across the softest planes of Will’s visage, brushing over long soft lashes. His reward,   
Hannibal realizes, of a cognizant Will during such moments, is going to be a bit overwhelming, considering that the man, oblivious like this, drove wild the repressed passions in Hannibal.

Hannibal applies pressure with his hand on the top of Will’s head, pushing him in for a kiss, inserting his tongue before sealing their mouths closed. Will does not resist, whimpering in Hannibal’s strong grip at the leeching kiss, feeling hazily   
within his convoluted mind his energy being depleted and drained. Hannibal drinks in the taste of Will Graham, reveling in the knowledge that he has won this argument with his Hyacinth: deserving of only the freshest cuts of meat and the best of Hannibal’s attentions.

Will moans lightly, arching up against Hannibal, pleading silently with his body for more of the kiss. Regretfully, Hannibal breaks them apart before lowering Will gently to the bed.

“Sleep, Will.” Hannibal bides the empath.

\---  
The third time Will wakes, he wakes to a array of noises. There are multitudes of people in the house, and Will is mortified. However, upon peering out the window, Will grasps it is late in the evening; he must return to his dogs and his house regardless.

Dressing in his old clothes, Will stumbles out of the room to attempt to steal out.

He makes it only as far as the second hall.

As he traverses down the length of the hall clandestinely, the large double doors abruptly opens and bright, blinding streams of light rapidly fills the room, highlighting Will’s retreating form.

“Hello, Will,” Hannibal steps out into the hall. 

A quick glance past the man and at the inhabitants of the other room confirms Will’s mistrusts; Alana Bloom, Frederick Chilton, Jack Crawford, and people who Will is not familiar with but knows are nobles, are all behind him. Hannibal moves forward, reaching Will; he takes Will’s hand and leads the feverish man to a seat while the room is lit.

“Come,” Hannibal addresses the others, motioning for them to settles themselves into various places in the hall.

Will squeezes Hannibal’s hand in desolation.

\---


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this version hasn't been beta'd yet, i just wanted to get the chapter out as soon as i could since the last two chapters were just plain shitty lmao. also, if you guys have any suggestions on plot devices and stuff that you want me to try and include; you're welcome to drop them in your comments and i'll work them in :) tbh i had fun writing this chap now that i have a brief break from uni

“Will?” 

Hannibal seats the upset man in a plush seat, wherein Will instantly shrinks discernably in demeanor under scavenger gazes secured upon him by the dinner guests. Will’s eyes dart to Alana Bloom, an acquaintance- quite possibly more- whom he’s sheltered affections for from a while, whom at this moment, regards him in disbelief. 

“Will!” Hannibal’s tone is incisive, causing Will to redirect his gaze to the man kneeling in front of him; a glass of chilled water: condensing on the fogged glass, held out to him. “Drink.”

Quivering fingers reach out from within the confines of a folded posture to clasp meekly at the offering, reduced to silence under the study of various physicians and lord knows who else drawn to an impaired psyche. Will raises the glass to his lowered head, shielded by dangling curls bobbing lightly as he swallows each gulp feverishly before raising the bare glass in importunity. 

“What’s he doing here Hannibal?” Alana’s accusatory voice cuts through Will’s tense disposition, and he strains his ears to catch bits of the heated discourse.

“Will is recuperating from an episode: a result of his work,” Hannibal reacts effortlessly to the biting tone, eyeing the shivering man curled in the seat with a touch of reverence for the man’s proficiency to endure the presence of such benighted individuals incapable of indulging his abilities.

“This long?” Jack probes, chagrined at an allegation only he sees.

“I heard,” Alana murmurs, incensed at Hannibal’s blasé stance in regards to her inquiry; she throws a severe glance at Jack Crawford, who remains to the side irritably, shrugging in weariness at the scene. “It seems perplexing that he’s still here,   
recovering as you say, even when it’s been two days, rounding on three! Jack, you find this acceptable?”

It wounds Will to see Alana disregard his blatant presence in the hall; she continues to address concerns centering him with an assumed viewpoint of opinions she presumes his own.

“At least it looks like it’s doing Will some good,” Jack seems largely unperturbed seeing Will’s intimacies with the physician; perhaps in light of his own long-term familiarity with Hannibal, he is unwilling to even ponder upon the good doctor being anything else. 

“Well, with somebody like Will Graham, it’s hard to keep away, isn’t it,” the murmured assessment originates from a spectator Will is unfamiliar with, and the nature of the insinuation makes him tense in alarm. “I, for one, readily admit that under   
similar circumstances, or even less, I would be much more inclined to take such steps.”

Irritation rises at the statement in Hannibal, the way one feels when something minute thwarts one’s advancement, a triviality that can be dealt with swiftly, but which has arisen of something so banal it irks one’s calm temperament.

“Will is, as of yet, unable to tend to himself, much less a pack of half a dozen canines,” Hannibal substantiates for the advantage of the lesser minds present, handing Will another filled glass to be gulped in rapid fervor. “I am, of course, readily   
available; my policies render my schedule free for the time being and I am more than willing to devote it to assisting a friend in recovery.”

“Friend, Hannibal?” Alana hisses, brows drawn in incredulity at the labelling of the seemingly professional affiliation. “He’s your patient!”

Jack’s interest is piqued at the term used. Hannibal notes the doubts forming due to Alana’s diatribe; remedied rapidly and with compelling evidence, will prove no hindrance, but left to simmer, will morph into ominous swords hung by threads.

“I'm afraid not,” When Will looks up in perplexity, he notes the crafted visage of exasperation born on Hannibal’s chiseled, bronze features and swallows in trepidation as he sees Alana waver in her importunity. “I had already been acquainted with Will when Jack requested I tend to him.”

Alana turns to Will, red silk gown iridescent under originators of the hall’s ambience, insistent on refuting Hannibal’s claims. Will has already caught on to her insecurity around the nature of his connection with Hannibal; a sore point for her noting that he’s rejected all advances she’s made to ensure his care under a confrere only to allow Hannibal easy entry into his mind and life. His empathy is quick to grasp at the betrayed sting of her movements.

“Will,” she begins slowly, unsure of this companionship and its benefits for a weakened individual as the one who currently lay curled in the couch before her. “Is this-” 

“He’s right,” Will mumbles whilst fiddling with his coat buttons to evade eye contact with the others murmuring quietly in the background, Alana’s ire is enough to set him off should he be in the mood for it; he has no qualms about contesting   
Alana’s claims of him being too _shattered_ to participate in a relationship. “I knew him, from before I mean.”

“I didn’t hear about this,” Jack’s tone is unsurprisingly grave, however, to Hannibal’s social dexterity this instance is without exception. He intends to subdue their fears while disseminating sound grounds for their entrustment of Will with him; such a solid base that not one would dare contradict. It might be vital, Hannibal muses, to head to the kitchen, where quite a large stock of that wonderful herb remained. 

“I assure you both,” Hannibal’s hand rises to lie on Alana’s shoulder in a sign of reassurance and oath. “Will is a dear friend and it is- ”

Whatever Hannibal says is lost, for at that moment, Will flicks his eyes upward to latch onto Hannibal’s translucent ambrosia pools, and the hint of covetousness he’s garnered is enough to send him into stunned mute meditation about his host’s intents for him.

“Come, Will,” Hannibal instructs, extending a hand to aid Will’s rise, which the empath clasps without pause, absent in his ruminations about said man. Hannibal is alert of the many eyes noting the clear revelation of trust, a sign cementing of   
his right over the empath lost within his mind; Hannibal relishes the feel of the bony wrist under his taut fingers as he guides his guests to the dining room. “I must insist you join us for dinner.”

Hannibal has a taste for the obscure, the symbolic, and the lavish; reflected supplely in his arras and decorations. Each widened hall is a trophy-laden den, carefully fashioned to ensure he possesses all desirable ingredients for a tasteful execution, albeit a stemmed one to preserve the delicate nature of the setting. It is Will’s first glimpse of the dining room that sets him off; the hand seized by Hannibal exerts frantically for a brief moment as he notices dripping antlers decking the northern wall, heading the table. A soft, repetitive caress of his pulse point appeases him marginally, but does nothing to quieten his trepidation.

Lead to a chair situated just right of Hannibal’s own; Will is subtly strained into the chair. Breathing deeply, he clutches at the ends of Hannibal’s suit: tugging, motioning for Hannibal to do anything but leave him to the wolves seated around.   
Hannibal leans down, brushing curls off his sweat-matted forehead, and touches soft lips to Will’s ear.

“Just for a moment, Will,” Will quakes at the peremptory tone. He takes the chance to lean into Hannibal’s sanguine presence, wanting to sink into a blank slate of relief rather than attend to the gluttonous incessant vultures ready to pick until he reduces to bare bones. 

As soon as Hannibal’s footsteps recede into the tiled kitchen, the banter of the visitants rises in fervor; more than a few comments are directed at Will, who resolutely disregards them in favor of fiddling with his clothing; or endeavors to at least, until Frederick Chilton leans heavily into his periphery.

“Hello again, Will,” the physician’s eyes gleam with the greed of detrimental curiosity with a fresh tint of envy. “What an unexpected encounter.”

Will makes no effort to conceal his shifting of the seat away from the determined man.

“Come now,” the words bear resemblance to forced honey choking a clenching windpipe void of air, and Will shudders. “It’s a little surprising to see you with Hannibal when you’d outright refused me.”

“Yeah well,” Will mutters, not wanting the man to develop any untoward notions of his relationship with Hannibal Lecter. “I don't know how it happened either.”

“Interesting,” Chilton is far too close for comfort and Will fights to exact breathing space, smothered in the smoldering jealousy of the physician who has malaise notions of the reputation of his host. “Well then, I don't suppose you’d mind me talking to Hannibal about you a bit; of course, with your best interests in mind.”

“He wouldn’t share,” Will spits out, startlingly himself with the perception. A tremble runs across the center of his body, the lingering aftermaths of which extends to his limbs in light of the discovery; he’d not foreseen the intensity of the   
doctor’s enthrallment with him.

Chilton look as if equally astounded, halted in his tracks, but it morphs steadily into glee.

“Leave him be, Chilton,” Alana warns from across the table, glaring at the offending man warily; she knows far too much about his taste for pursuing things he shouldn’t.

“So that’s what it is then,” the physician muses, fingers drumming on the table brusquely, drawing Will’s scattered mind to the heavy thuds of the pads of the fingers meeting glass. “Not surprisingly really.”

“That’s what ‘what’ is?” Jack questions, setting aside his wine.

“Hannibal’s interests aren’t really all that different from mine,” Chilton expands, reclining in his chair gloriously. “He’s interested in what Will’s mind has to offer, just a bit differently.”

“Yeah?” Jack’s cynicism has Will approving. “It’s better than you wanting to fuck his head up is what I think.”

“Agreed I want to experiment a bit,” Chilton waves away the accusation, accepting of the notion tied to his actions as if it were a ready part of his vocation. “But Hannibal’s doing the same thing really, in a more natural environment.”

“Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do?” Jack’s oversight is palpable in the statement, and Will is readily upset that Jack sees him as an outsider, to be picked and prodded; as if he were any different from the dissembled dignitaries seated at the table. 

“We’ll see what comes out of it,” Chilton’s tone is haughty, leaving Will pondering what the man knows about Hannibal Lecter.

“At least Will’s doing much better; aren’t you?” Jack’s statement is directed at Will, leaving the empath in want for accord as he adjusts himself in the chair and nods tentatively. 

Rolling his eyes in arrogance, Chilton snorts.

“He thinks he is.”

“Chilton!” Alana seems to sense Will’s discomfort.

“I am,” Will mutters, tugging harshly at a frayed end of his coat; his desire to clamp shut the mouth of the obstinate man is rising as a tide does before it’s all-devastating fall. Hannibal’s care of him, when Will had undergone yet another episode in early morning, displayed the enhanced proficiencies of the physician; he’d been able to stabilize Will’s rampant mind under duress and then of course, had tended to his rest as well. Will, though averse of the aims of such intensive care,   
cannot deny that is it undeniably favorable to a scattered man such as him.

Therefore, Chilton’s remark properly vexes him.

“He’s better than you would be,” Will retorts after a moment’s pause, drawing the attention of Alana and the other guest she’s returned to deep conversation with. 

Chilton bristles at the comment, but feigns to brushing it off as result of Will’s naïve bond to the doctor as an inclination of his neurotic tendencies. Of course, it must be touched upon that by now, Will has acquired a subtle taste for the doctor and the planes of his mind; Hannibal Lecter’s conduct in light of the ailment rendering Will an anomaly has left a rather sweet reverberation in the mind of the empath, leaving him unable to turn from the veiled malignant uses the physician has for him, executed under the guise of compassioned care.

“Well, regardless, it won't hinder the rest of us from inquiring,” says the petulant man seated next to Alana.

“Sutcliffe!” Alana rebukes in shock.

“What?” the man asks, superficially negligent of the implications of his statement, as if he had just not made a move on Will Graham, who was, irrefutably, Hannibal’s own. 

“You’re all getting worked up for nothing,” Alana snaps, arms crossing briskly as she eyes her companions in disdain. “Will doesn’t do well with physicians.”

“I think he’s doing more than great with Hannibal,” the man Will now knows to be Sutcliffe is less than pleased with Will’s attitude. Will’s empathy cautions him of Sutcliffe’s conviction that irregularities such as Will should submit to study voluntarily. 

The man wants to expand his frustration, but apropos, Hannibal enters, arms laden with dishes that send sprawling a heavy aroma that has his guests turning in desirous veneration in their seats; all but Will. Hannibal is more than attentive of   
Will’s reluctance to gorge under scrutiny and is waiting for an opportune moment to present itself; he busies himself with regaling the present individuals of his dish, particularly piquant: attributable to the infuriation of a gate guard he had observed mock Will.

Will pays no courtesy to Hannibal’s rousing illustration of the ingredients and a snippet concerning the gracefully constructed dishes lain out; neither does he reach for the utensils when the others begin to eat, slouching hunched in his chair.

“You aren’t going to eat?” Jack demands of Will following a round of elevated compliments directed at Hannibal. 

“He doesn’t each much,” Alana answers for him, eyeing him with the worry of a nagging woman; Will turns his head away from her in slight revulsion of her suppositions of him as an incapacitated individual; he could attempt much more unburdened of his mental instability.

“Will,” Hannibal’s voice is soft. 

A hand lands on his arm, startling Will.

Will’s lashes flutter as Hannibal appeases with contact of skin, rubbing generous languid circles to safeguard his composure. Will overhears snippets of Alana plying Jack with Will’s ill eating habits and the effect it has on his body, and then advancing to argue a bit about his meager salary under belittling eyes of the normal town folk and authorities, to which Jack is appropriately incensed.

None have sighted Hannibal’s actions save for one.

Chilton’s gaze on him has not strayed, still fixed resolutely and now even more so with Hannibal’s private motions. Hannibal seems mindful of this, but does nothing to deter the man, leaving Will to deliberate what the physician is intending to   
prove.

“Begin slowly,” Hannibal’s tone leaves no room for complaint, and thus Will’s hand gracelessly grasps at the spoon, dipping it into the broth of the dish. “Your dish is laden with more supplements, so it will please me greatly if you are able to   
finish.”

Will eyes the dusky broth encasing the black cuts of meat, the leaves, and the spices. The ruddy color has the leafy components adopting a withered appearance and the black cuts of meat tighten his jaw; nevertheless, Will brings the spoon to his mouth.

Alana’s incredulity at Will’s actions bleeds into his mind, his empathy catching hold of the astonishment and deceived conviction of the woman; Jack has grown watchful now of the hold Hannibal has over Will. Will is equally troubled; he’s compelled to finish the soup and anything else Hannibal sets in front of him, for want of the same soothing comfort he’d been presented moments ago.

“Good boy,” Hannibal’s words are breathed near imperceptibly, but Will is sure that Chilton has caught wind of them; the physician has withdrawn subtly, leaving Will timidly appreciative of Hannibal’s company. A tendril of the adulation swivels about in his eyes as Will regards his host with gratitude.

Needless to say, Hannibal is amply delighted as Chilton recoils, mindful of the hold Hannibal has on the empath.

Will feels Hannibal’s hand settle on his limp wrist lain on the table once more, rubbing it encouragingly.

The dish is consumed entirely under the attentive gaze of Hannibal.

\---

When Will stammers, after the drawn-out dinner, if he may please remain for the night here, Hannibal is accredited in his serpentine deftness. Hannibal permits for Will to depart to his room; he’s cognizant of the strain brought upon the empath by the exchanges with Chilton and the secondary ones with Alana as consequence of the empathic condition. The right amount of enforced interaction with the wrong sort of people would no doubt set about a fracture in the healing psyche of Will Graham.

The herb had been unnecessary after all; Hannibal had caught with his exercised ears the snippets of a strenuous, taxing exchange with Chilton intentioned to wear out Will to the point of mental and consequently, bodily collapse. The part Hannibal had accredited to Chilton’s prying and blunt tongue had played out satisfactorily, though the insinuations at Hannibal’s controlling nature would not be forgiven when it came time for Chilton to grace Hannibal’s table contrarily.

“Come along Will,” Hannibal calls as he guides the distraught empath to his room, astutely aware of the eyes fixed upon the intimations of his association with Will Graham; he’s deeply sated at their carnal conjectures but refrains from its articulation, adopting rather, a worried countenance for an intimate companion who trails him without second thought.

Hannibal makes sure to spend a great deal of time within Will’s room as the man settles, tending to this or that triviality as he aids Will in adjusting to contented levels. Will allows him do as he please, drugged by viscous sleep pouring over his senses, and Hannibal croons like a contented lover, patting the curls down tenderly as he bids his cherished treasure goodnight.

As he descends into the occupied hall, Hannibal is met with foreseen flagrant queries of the nature of his relationship with the young man.

Chilton is the first to speak plainly.

“So, that’s an unusual form of treatment,” the cocking of one eyebrow displeases Hannibal, who simply smiles despite his urge to peel the skin over Chilton’s face and leave the man incapable of manifesting physically his conceit.

“Will is a dear friend, and his well-being supersedes all other issues,” Hannibal replies civilly, neglecting to decline the allegations in Chilton’s statement. 

“Is he ready to get back on the job?” Jack interjects, looking for all the word, a little infuriated at being lost in the banter. Hannibal notes how anxious the man is for the aid Will has to offer; it must mean they have chanced upon something or   
the other from the last kill. He’s intrigued to see how this plays out without Will to offer insight at the moment, however, he also desires for Will to comprehend and value the significance of the designs; it won't do to keep Will locked up for long   
and away from the murders.

“Soon,” Hannibal relents, noting the rigidity in Jack’s frame, plainly mitigated by the response.

“Hannibal, really,” Chilton’s tone is significantly more grouchy in the absence of Will Graham, the sign of a craven man frantic for any morsel accessible to him. “You could tell us a bit about him; it’s no fun being left in the dark, I say.”

There are many uses for a man blinded by gluttony and envy; they are often the simplest to lead into a corner, to frame, to abuse, to drag about in a wasted chase; Hannibal Lecter is mindful of the benefits of having such a man in his intimate   
circle. Therefore, it is with particular reflection he relents knowledge of Will Graham’s gift to the man, paving way for a greater fruition in the foreseeable future; the use of Frederick Chilton in his design.

“Should you choose to observe and converse with Will, _appropriately_ ,” Hannibal lets his strain of the word hang between all his invitees, but trains his eyes on the fervent eagerness of Chilton; the drawing of these strings is an adept   
one, rendered fatal for its victims while wholly profitable for Hannibal.. “You will catch light, evidently, of the nature of his gift.”

“Gift?” The exclaim is skeptical and grits on Hannibal’s skin, nonetheless, the point has been made and Chilton, among others present, has caught wind of the inferences of Hannibal’s words. 

“Perhaps you see it differently,” Hannibal says sharply. “I view Will’s abilities as true marvels, capable of delving into depths unreachable by even heightened standards.”

Chilton says nothing, wary pools of black widening in blankness as the man leans back into his seat.

“Well,” Gideon observes from his seat. “That’s not exactly pleasant conversation material is it?”

“My apologies,” Hannibal is aware of Chilton piecing together the fed information even as he maneuvers the conversation to lighter subject matter.

There are very few pieces left to align in his design.

\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> like i said before: drop any suggestions you have for this fic in your comments and i'll work them in!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've actually started writing this again for good! Chapter 07 rough draft is complete and I'm going to be editing it this week so hopefully that will be up soon as well! I've actually decided to finish this by September end so stay tuned ^^ Not beta-read so all mistakes are mine lol and I've noticed quite a few in my other chapters as well that I'm going to fix, sorry if my writing style isn't as stellar as it used to be :/

Lethargy blankets Will when he wakes, leaving him unable to rouse himself from the profound slumber that had engulfed him in the recent days spent residing in the luxuries of Hannibal’s home. The weariness is pervasive and is only exacerbated by the fact that there is nothing much for him to indulge in within Hannibal’s extravagant residence. There are things he yearns to do, such as addressing the doctor intimately, but he steers clear of doing anything remotely unnerving. The lengthy constricted corridors bathed in dappled shadows is enough to set him off as he staggers through them in the direction of the doctor. 

Will is not entirely conscious of the exact nature of what sets off his senses rather acutely, and is often times overcome with the peculiar yet frantic urge to be out. There is an impression of uneasiness that swathes the home, something he can only intuit but cannot visibly observe, and it agonizes Will more than he thinks it should.

Hannibal awaits in the hall as Will ambles through the tapered corridors of the home. Clad in garbs of Hannibal’s picking, a set of velvety silk attire Will is sure rates far beyond his wages, Will is excessively conscious of himself and his form. This he is convinced Hannibal can effortlessly recognize from the manner in which the fabric hangs from the reliefs of his delicate frame – not that he disapproves of the doctor’s cursory glances.

Unorthodox oils and timeworn vases, which Will presumes has remarkable substance that is lost on a lower-class citizen like him, line the extended passages as he arrives at the room he loathes the most. The chamber is adorned with the presence of Leda and the Swan, one that commands his thighs clench with every glance he directs its way, fetching forth passions that Will considers vehement to be bared in the company of the doctor.

Hannibal remains enduring, adorned with his customary three-piece with coat dexterously gathered and deposited on a proximate chair, and peruses Will’s attire: Carolina blue and reworked for the delicate frame. Diminutive fastenings gleamed with encrusted minerals, ones that Hannibal had procured from an acquaintance who had appeared for dinner. The silk, Hannibal had elected as it would be excruciatingly provoking for a oversensitive male like Will as it glided unceasingly over the soft planes of the body. 

“Good afternoon, Will,” Hannibal motions to the vacant seat in front of him. “I apologize for being rather direct, but I must converse with you of matters that we can no longer afford to evade.”

“I haven’t been avoiding anything,” Will murmurs as he curls into himself, shivering as the silk amends and coils itself around his frame.

Hannibal lingers in silence, knowing unreasonably aggravation would only decelerate his dealings with Will, waiting for a propitious moment to set tension upon the man.

“What of the occurrence with the Royal Guard and Jack Crawford?” Hannibal inquires deliberately, perceptive of the fact that he required of Will direct addressing of the issue, there had been delay long enough for gears in other parts to stir. “You have denied discussion of it since the day you arrived.”

Will grimaces, twisting away from Hannibal in what could only be mortification, slender digits kneading his wrist in a self- consoling motion. Hannibal grasps that Will has understood the implications of the display and had merely been avoiding complete apprehension both subconsciously and determinedly. Invigorating delight saturates Hannibal as he contemplates his design to raise the discarded sensitivities to light, to have Will drown in ambiances that would daze him.

“It’s nothing really central to the case,” Will mutters, still inclined away from Hannibal, hands sheltering his lap and still stroking himself in reassurance. “Doesn’t really tell us much about the Ripper.”

Perception floods Hannibal, Will’s lapsed memory has lost nearly all of the figures he had amassed prior to collapsing. Hannibal dismisses his former machinations, there is now a demand to draw things out of the gravities of Will’s psyche. Hannibal ponders of other means than that of speaking to the man, already devising and amending a design of primordial intrusion.

“Very well. We will then simply direct our consideration to the occurrence and fresh behavioral strategies,” Hannibal lets his gaze wander to the position Will has unintentionally taken, a mildly sheltering one that would require a reduced amount of coaxing. “Perhaps you would like to speak of what you encountered at the time?”

“Nothing usual,” Will’s deceitful unconcern comes to the fore and the body strains itself in facing Hannibal, assuming an air of practiced nonchalance, of having performed the same act in multitudes. The experience, Hannibal knows, is not as extensive as Will habitually renders in his depictions. Only a smattering of occasional cases, though they were unnaturally inhumane and ghastly. “I’ve seen worse.”

Perhaps, but nothing quite as striking or intriguing, Hannibal tells himself as he observes Will gazing at him from beneath hanging coffee curls. The eyes, in their luster, lie sunken between folds of weary skin. 

“Not a single aspect worthy of being a trigger?”

Will shrugs, hands unclenching from their place on his lap in order to level out the ruffling silk constantly unsettling him. Will wrangles with the whim of informing the doctor that he hasn’t a clue.

“Do you not recall what set you off?” Hannibal advances slightly in his seat, directing his fingers to entrap Will’s own. Will startles as anticipated but eases into the grip, heated digits fidgeting in Hannibal’s hold.

“No,” Will’s mortified whisper is nearly imperceptible. 

“There exists a rather ingenuous technique to gather what evades the conscious mind,” Hannibal depresses his vocal tenor and draws Will nearer to himself with a considerable pull of Will’s hands and is charmed when Will follows, despite Will’s body language persisting in rigidity. “May I, Will?”

Will hesitates, body recoiling in an attempt to secure space between them in order to clearly contemplate, aware that proximity to the doctor – who is already Hannibal within his mind - would affect his thoughts. Roughened fingers curl around Will’s own, feeling out a rapidly pulsating vein beneath the rough fingertips, pressing down. Hannibal slightly tugs the hand from Will’s other and cradles it between both his own before letting his gaze ascend to encounter Will’s.

Beneath a gaze of liquid ambrosia, Will shudders and lets the ensuing chill draw in emboldening warmth to his body, leaning voluntarily towards Hannibal. 

“Ok,” Will murmurs, fingers drifting across Hannibal’s wrist, testing the soothing skin and attempting to locate a pulse, taking in the soft heat of Hannibal’s musk. Pleased with the deliberate actions, Hannibal gently traverses his right hand over Will’s arm and authoritatively jerks Will into his presence. “Just this once.”

“I do not intend to trouble you with us more than once,” Hannibal breathes into Will’s ear, the flushed cartilage mere centimeters from his parted lips, delighting in the resulting shiver that passes through Will. “Relax.”

The hand within Hannibal’s own attempts to withdraw in retreat, but Hannibal merely strengthens his grip, rendering it impractical for Will to draw his hand away. A soft whimper draws Hannibal’s notice away from the squirming hand searching for other unviable options of fleeing.

“Let me,” Without abandoning Will’s hand, Hannibal stands, pulling them both up and deftly maneuvering them to the chaise lounge and settling down with Will neatly tucked into his side, both hands now clasped within rougher, calloused ones. “Breathe, Will.”  
Will, like a lost lamb, takes in a shuddering breath as instructed and forces his body to systematically relax, progressively growing limper and tucks himself further into Hannibal, grateful for the comfort of the older man’s bracketing frame. A slight twist of Will’s wrist allows him to caress Hannibal, to test the waters of comfort of the creature that lay beneath the meat-suit.

“Focus on my voice, William,” Hannibal commences tenderly, dropping his tenor and enunciating his words deliberately. Will nuzzles into the fabric of the suit and lets his eyes flutter to closure. “Focus on the mild heat of the afternoon as it brushes across your face, feel the warmth sink into your skin. Let it grow in intensity gradually, let it calm you, let it gently pull you to lethargy.”

Will slumps further, the soft soothing tenor of Hannibal’s voice washing over him as he feels the stupor build. 

“You slowly begin to feel heavy-eyed and unwound as the warming relaxation continues to bathe you.”

Hannibal does not desist the rhythmic stroking of the hands within his as he adjusts the body in his grasp slightly.

“Now, Will – ”

\---

Waking rather abruptly, Will realizes that he still is lodged carefully into the side of the doctor, hands and frames intimately woven together, and scowls slightly in awkwardness. He cannot bring to mind what has just occurred and turns to Hannibal for assistance.

With an air of slight sympathy that wounds Will, Hannibal curls one arm around Will and draws him in further. He permits Will the sensation of the heat of his body, knowing it would disconcert more than comfort.

“Apologies,” Hannibal murmurs remorsefully, watching as Will sighs and burrows deeper within his awakening-daze. “I did not intend for the break to be so abrupt. Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” Will manages to force through heavy lips. “What happened?”

The feel of Hannibal’s posture straightening alarms Will. The withdrawal of the body makes him uncurl as well, apprehension drawing out rare and raw resentment from within him. Will levels accusatory eyes at Hannibal, fear and anxiety masked momentarily by ire at Hannibal’s altered treatment of him. Will desires to know what has occurred, but the doctor’s response only demonstrates that the knowledge will only be unkind.

“You spoke of the girl,” Murky honey eyes fix on Will’s own in an attempt to avoid startling or distressing the smaller of the two. “Of what significances, you unearthed only moments before your collapse.”

Will turns away.

“And?”

“Fertility,” Hannibal soothes, the body next to him eerily immobile and subdued, sweat plastering rustic curls on the forehead in delicate woven tessellations. “An appeasement of some nature, an extension of an armistice, and one of courting as well.”

“Courting.”

Hannibal overlooks the flat statement, assured that Will has only enquired to ascertain his reflections. 

“You imagine the Ripper is displaying an alternative close for the both of you, to demonstrate that there are other courses to be taken that would result in a culmination of attuned compassions. It seems that the Ripper is rather assured of his elected courting offering.”

“A deliberate presentation means there’s an obvious beneficiary,” Will can barely form the words from beneath a viscous fog of mortification and revulsion. “It also means a display of trust in the receiver to consider it correctly.”

“Trust in you,” Hannibal cannot resist the triumphant wave within him even as his lips form the inaugural utterances of Will’s metamorphosis.

Will jerks free of Hannibal and the chaise lounge, shooting up and stumbling slightly in front of it and flushing a rusty salmon as humiliation and shame surges through him. Though discomforting – Will chokes on a lingering sensation of conceit he feels at being chosen for courtship – a rarity for malfunctioning aberrations like himself. Compartmentalizing his thoughts for later appraisal, he turns towards Hannibal.

“I don’t think,” he begins hotly and flushes when Hannibal merely gazes at him, most likely patiently in wait for Will to calm and deliberate with a clear mind. The shame is far too intense to ignore and Will can only compensate by rationalizing and thus his lips and tongue push forward unbidden. “Dr. Lecter, it can’t be – ”

“You were rather sure of these suppositions,” the damned countenance slathered over Will’s face irks Hannibal, though he is aware of Will’s latent acceptance of the nature of the courting gift. “You spoke of your intimate ability to comprehend the complexities of the Ripper’s nature. The man who hides himself away beneath a vulnerable pastiched suit-exterior meant only to nurture the monster within himself.”

Will shakes his head in dissent.

“Not within him,” Will mutters, chewing his lip. “He feeds himself really. It’s not a guilty pleasure, it’s just a pleasure for him. One that he satisfies as he pleases. More now that he’s met me, I think I’ve given him more reasons. He wants to present things for me, to make me understand something. What that is, I don’t know yet.”

Hannibal feels the sentiments he has for Will rise and crest in adulation, aware that Will is painfully conjecturing a design of the Ripper with all the familiarity he can muster, and appraising the courting presentation, despite his seeming aversion to the bloodletting. 

“Please,” Will’s breathy imploring weakens Hannibal’s knees. His own corporeal Botticelli deserved no less than the finest of attentions to be paid to both body and mind and Hannibal would appreciatively oblige once things proceeded due course. “Please, let me think about it, don’t tell Jack, he –”

Hannibal lets Will’s entreating draws it course, the momentum of the episode enough to carry through and bare a truly susceptible Will to him. The empath draws closer, hands moving upwards and running through hair harshly as the body jerked itself through another emotion-intense event.

“Will,” Hannibal instructs, letting Will nearer, observing as Will assessed him with darting eyes. Presenting the exposed palms of his hands, Hannibal draws then closer together until they are nearly pressed breast to breast in front of his chaise longue. “You will remain my foremost concern.”

“And Jack be damned?” Will snorts.

The presence of callous humor tells Hannibal that Will is no longer susceptible to mental promptings, leaving room for only carnal ones.

“Something of the sort,” Hannibal whispers, letting his throaty words spin a tale of emotional struggle as his fingers card through damp curls, lightly tugging the head into the crook of his neck and prompting Will to curl thin digits into the expensive suit uncaring of the creases created in the dark fabric.

“Why,” Here Hannibal felt Will swallowing, dry lips stirring against the soft skin of Hannibal’s neck. “What made me say I’m the person he’s doing this for?”

“You did not particularize lucidly ‘why’ but you revealed that your demons complement each other. I am inclined to credit other remarks you made of your capacity to grasp the man, creating an affinity for your empathy and understanding in him, pulling him to you,” Will had said nothing of the sort, in fact, Will had said nothing at all seeing as the only words uttered had been those of Hannibal’s construction. “Your ‘potential’, as you phrased it.”

\---

Fatigued from the session, Will thrust himself into a velvety seat near the vast fireplace in Hannibal’s home, swathed in thick blankets of a downy composition that nestled into his skin and provided ample heat and relief, in addition to that offered by the running fire. The doctor – Hannibal – had left him alone for the time being to assemble his thoughts from before, leaving him with a select slew of sentences Will had uttered during whatever it was that the doctor – Hannibal – had done.

Though Will is sure there is more concealed and veiled from him, Hannibal had mentioned attending to those in the future, and thus ponders of it not.

‘Your demons complement each other.’

For the life of him, comprehension of that line evaded him, despite his empathic adeptness filling him with gratification and meekness at the thought. A return to the place of thought touched during such sessions, Hannibal had revealed, was extremely rare and unheard of.   
Though the meaning eluded him, Will is certain he understands – courtesy of his empathic aptitude – why he had said it, and he pushes that particular strain of thought out of his head.

Will had much rather Hannibal and his demons play together instead, incompatible though they seemed to be.

Footfalls resounding through the hollow pathway outside the door forces Will to rise stiffly, there are far too many for it to be only Hannibal. There is another, joining the harsh ends of Hannibal’s shoes, in creating the cacophony of footsteps.

The door swung open smoothly, light from the pathway illuminating an ever-assured Hannibal gently asserting Jack Crawford inside with the palm of his hand on the back of the head of the Royal Guard. Jack’s countenance revealed to Will haste and hurry. Jack Crawford here, within the intimates of Hannibal’s indicated a play of dominance. With Will, more specifically, and to be aided in by Hannibal. Though by the permissive body language of Jack, undoubtedly Hannibal had taken the reins of the encounter.

“Evening, Graham,” Jack greets, striding over and taking a seat, a probing hand drawing out a wad of papers from within his coat. Crumbled and stained from constant perusal, they seemed more unofficial than anything, yet replete with wisdom from the assistants Price and Zeller. “You and I have things to talk about.”

Hannibal settles in next to Will, noting Jack questioning his proximity to the empath. He nods imperceptibly, indicative of benevolence and mercifulness for the withering frame beside him, and Jack consumes the communication unhesitatingly, appeased.

“We came to some conclusions in the last few days, while you were here, that you might find useful,” Jack pauses to frown at the papers. “The girl was the daughter of one of the town councilmen, not sure why she was chosen specifically, she’s the opposite of Olmstead by all counts.”

“There has to be a specific reason why she was chosen,” Will states, his mind has already begun shaping the design. “There’s more to it than the obvious symbolic meaning he wanted me to see.”

With the raise of Jack’s eyebrows, Hannibal perceives the birth of inklings of doubt. Inclined as he is to dispose of Crawford, Hannibal recognizes prospect now where before he had only seen hindrance and complications. Will’s following responses will only embolden the reservation, Hannibal only requires a smidgeon of it to ensue.

“What did he want you to notice?” Jack snaps in displeasure.

“It’s a courting gift,” Will specifies. “I don’t know what it means yet, so I can’t help you with that right now.”

“That’s what you said last time,” Jack says gradually, eyes narrowed.

It matters not that Will has been so forthcoming, in his exposed state it is easy for Hannibal to comprehend how vulnerable and lost Will is. Jack throws an inquisitorial glance Hannibal’s way.

Hannibal elects to give Jack naught, shifting his glance to Will’s frame in concern.

Jack’s countenance contorts into one of anger as he comprehends the dishonesty in the actions of the two men before him, the deceit of having in their custody more than cursory information and being evasive and vague. The urge to carve into the man’s throat builds within Hannibal, though he is able to effortlessly dissipate it with considerations of Will’s neutral referents to the courting kill in the presence of Jack. 

“That’s what you think of this then?” Jack asks, ire mounting. “Her father’s never liked you, and he’s downright furious so things aren’t going to be too pretty for you in town for a while. Go back to Wolf Trap for a while.”

“Apologies, Jack,” Hannibal slickly interjects, sensing Will’s infuriated weariness at being thrust into the margins once again. “It was only on my insistence that Will has remained at my home for the duration of nearly a week.”

Snorting indifferently, Jack returns to Will.

“Surgical cuts, practiced, precise, and premeditated,” Jack read outs. “Male, like you said. Symbolic. A lot about fertility. Something about displaying fertile options?”

Chilton, Hannibal reflects acerbically, a man deserving of caustic treatment before being starkly arranged with a delicate wabi-sabi for a merrymaking gathering, finally served with the admiration the man audaciously hankers for. In spite of the irate sentimentalities the pitiable physician aroused, Jack Crawford’s consultation with Chilton intrigued Hannibal.

“Who’s it for, Graham?”

The empath begins to shiver, Jack’s straight nature cutting through the defenses Will has erected. Though unsettled by the request, Will is certain the Guard haven’t furthered their study of the Ripper’s identity or that of linking the murders. 

“You it is, then.”

A statement of acquiescence, Will’s frazzled mind notes. 

Will notes Hannibal straightening beside him with adulation, the authority scattering forth and grounding Will, granting enough pluck to contend with Jack. For the benefit of Jack, Hannibal pivots his body towards Will, a visible show of support. 

“What if it’s me?” Will retorts, emerging out of the swathe of blankets.

“If it is you,” Jack expounds slowly, eyes roving over Will’s tensed body. Will’s hands, Hannibal notes with delight, are curled into the blankets, gripping tightly to curb vicious propensities. “Then you’ll be watched. Just in case. Protocol.”

“You’re going to watch me at Wolf Trap?” Will rises up in aggravated fury at the loss of privacy. Hannibal’s body thrums with a heated impulse to appease the empath, to impart better the knowledge of spectacles of authority. Instead, he gazes with poorly veiled concern at Will,   
lingering amply for Jack to amass the countenance mentally before resuming an impassive stance.

“We’ll leave you alone there, but no more unregulated visits to Baltimore for now,” Jack’s subtle glances indicates a need for approval from Hannibal, who returns the sentiments in kind. “Stay out of town for a while, Graham, if you know what’s good for you.” 

Will pales in rage but forfeits. 

Hannibal eyes both men before lightly inserting himself into the confrontation.

“If I may,” Hannibal opens, seizing their attentions. He recesses for a moment before leaning forward slightly, feet pointed at Jack firmly. “I will take of Will’s needs at Wolf Trap.”

Jack’s apprehension tells tales.

Hannibal gives an indiscernible shake of his head in pacification, curling his lips into a visage of commiseration for Will.

A nod of sanction, only just veiling suspicion, is granted to Hannibal.

\---


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm focusing on the plot rather than my writing style so sorry if it isn't as juicy as it was before! :/

The following morning is torturous for Will. He’s strained from being forced out of Hannibal’s home. Though he’s had a week’s respite at the man’s insistence, swathed in luxurious nourishment and amenities, the thought of departing from Hannibal is disheartening. Hannibal and he had spoken very little of what else had transpired during the session he’d had with the doctor, largely due to the fact that Will had not desired to.

The quaint carriage arrives, a dampened spot amidst the dreary weather. Will bristles slightly, the demeanor of everything an accurate reflection of his current sentiments. His dogs, Will reminds himself, and his other responsibilities lie in wait, though a greater part of him wishes to elude the real world and its matter – at least for a while longer.

Will’s throat runs dry as he remembers Hannibal pacifying his raging emotions. The man waits aside him as the carriage gradually halts, a sturdy hand positioned reassuringly on his waist, grounding him. Hannibal exudes security, his mere presence generating lucidity in Will, a rare composure for someone plagued by an illness of the mind. Hannibal’s thumb presses into the curve of his hips lightly, Will blushing furiously as his thighs tingle and convulse imperceptibly with heat and desire, his body leaning into the touch.

The unhurried conduct of the driver irks Hannibal. However, since the acquiring of the handler had occupied Hannibal for the better part of the previous evening, he permits the occurrence. Hannibal is rather pleased with his selection, despite the concession he’d had to make   
with performativity with what the driver being a psychosomatic oddity. 

Hannibal observes in amusement as Will stifles his urges with soft whimpers, offering appeasement with quieting rubs of his hand, winding his empath into submission. He lets his hand traverse to the nape of Will’s neck and grips the tender skin lightly, allowing Will to relax   
and transmit control to Hannibal.

“Tha- thank you,” Will flushes out, acutely aware of Hannibal’s fingers toying with stray strands of his hair. He’s enveloped in a russet coat that smells profoundly of Hannibal, but doesn’t enquire why he’s been given it, reveling in the break provided to submerge himself in the   
fragrance of his benefactor. “You didn’t have to, you know.”

“Nonsense,” Hannibal begins, the tenor one of delicate reprimand, propelling Will forward towards the expectant carriage with his hovering hand. The hesitancy of his charge in departing from his company alights yearning within Hannibal’s loins, a sentiment he no longer   
desires to curtail. It is astounding how little Will has to do to charm a touch-starved man. “I will, of course, be regular in visiting you in Wolf Trap. Distance and the forest will do little to deter me.”

Will purses his lips in dismay. His cottage in Wolf Trap is unkempt and practical at best and he cannot envision Hannibal taking any delight in being subject to such settings – despite the fact that the man had managed to do so rather remarkably the last time he’d come around,   
attending to a social call.

“Jack probably won’t let you,” He grinds out instead, skeptical of Hannibal’s commitments, mind filtering the positives away as his dismal characterization of himself capsizes any anticipative considerations he has towards the doctor. “So don’t mind me if I don’t have a lot of   
hope for you.”

As soon as the scathing reflections flees his lips, Will flushes in humiliation. 

Hannibal excuses the lapse in judgement, inwardly fascinated by the self-deprecation assuaging the empath, a sign of a faulty evaluation of the self. Nevertheless, Hannibal is content with the affirmation of his ruminations, the complex in itself will prove itself creditable in   
pressing Will to comply to his demands, furthering successfully, Hannibal’s machinations for the both of them.

Will evades entry into the carriage as long as humanly possible and simply slumps, eyeing the handler as he adjusts trivial this and that on the pristine carriage, threadbare attire stark in contrast to the immaculate covering of the transport. Hannibal rests beside him in watchful   
anticipation as Will deliberates himself into a feverous limpness. 

It is then, when Will inclines into Hannibal’s grip and laments with a slight whine that Hannibal ascertains the empath’s lucidity has departed, at least for the moment. He lets his hand drop down to Will’s waist once more, rough grip hauling Will to his chest, permitting no   
space between them as they face one another: Hannibal’s eyes narrowed in hunger, Will’s lidded and disoriented. 

His left-hand settles on the other side of Will’s waist, maneuvering the smaller frame as Hannibal inserts a heavy thigh between Will’s own, allowing the empath to collapse into him, frail hands trailing up the expensive paisley suit and soft skin of the neck to settle into   
faultlessly swept hair.

Hannibal directs a nod to the expectant handler to remain reserved of the proceedings before reverting his gaze to the pliant Will within his grasp, the lithe body surging slightly against the expanse of Hannibal’s sturdy thigh, near-inaudible whimpers muffled by the cloth of   
the suit. Hannibal’s right hand climbs up the coat he’s elected to garb Will in to grip at the empath’s nape, exacting roughened control as he employs the hold to slot their mouths together and angle Will’s head just the right way as he explores the heated mouth of the empath.   
Will whines into the kiss, pressing into Hannibal in importunity, insistent in pushing Hannibal’s mouth into his own, breathing heavily between their kisses and rutting frantically against the thigh wedged between his own.

Granting Will a few more open-mouthed kisses, Hannibal parts them, Will whining despondently at the abandonment. A concession of excessive affection at this moment would only prove to be counter-productive to the cultivation of Will, and thus Hannibal relents. Softly   
smoothing Will’s moistened russet curls from his forehead, Hannibal parts them both, pressing a concluding kiss onto to flushed and plump lips. 

“Soon,” Hannibal rotates Will, escorting the limp man to the carriage. Will’s hand is wound rigidly across his wrist even as the empath scrambles inside the awaiting ride and unwinds into the cushioned seat, morose in his flaccidity. Uncurling the pale digits splayed rather   
covetously over his wrist – for which his vanity croons – he leaves Will for the awaiting arms of slumber.

The carriage hurrying away at a moderate pace, Hannibal’s tongue lathes over his lips, raising and consuming the lingering tang of Will.

\---

The carriage stumbling over a slight aperture in the road startles Will out of his daze. In the haze, he speculates the lost time between when he’d stumbled out of the large doors of Hannibal’s home and awoken now. Shamed at the occurrence of another blackout episode, Will   
steels his resolve and attempts at avoiding the thought for the rest of the trip, noting the blurred visibility of his antiquated cottage as they drew near their journey’s end.

“You awake in there?” the dulled rap of knuckles against the lumber of the carriage intrudes into the stillness of Will’s mind.

Despite the shrouding scented warmth of Hannibal’s coat, Will shivers at the biting cold, moving forward in the draped berth.

“Ye-yeah!” the wind is ice and brittle as it streams inside the carriage. Will desires nothing more than to be curled up in his bed, nestled between his thick covers and his dogs.

“Good!” The yell carries over. “Cause we’re nearly there!”

Shuddering, Will hastens to bolt the window in an effort to warm himself. Hannibal’s musk is warm where he buries his nose into the folds of the coat. Will bites back a moan as his cock hardens at the heady scent of the older man. His easy arousal at the doctor perplexes him.   
Never before in his life has any attention granted to others been so intense, his raging desire guts him with intense sensations and a rising sense of covetousness towards the doctor Will is only able to restrain feebly. Will briefly despairs at his inexperienced fumbling, at his   
underdeveloped physical proclivities. 

The house appears nearly identical to the manner in which it had when he had departed from it last, only his canines missing from sight. Will, body plastered to the window, idly deliberates upon how Hannibal would have arranged for matters of Will’s home to be cared for and   
how fruitful the hired hands had been in their labor.

The carriage grinds to a halt a little ways to the side of the rickety porch, yet Will refuses to rise, unwilling to let the musk of Hannibal in his olfactory system be awashed by the frigid wind. As he peers through the dense drapes lining the window, eyeing with trepidation the   
driver hustling about with a load of sheltered wicker baskets, Will knows he can no longer dither.

Uncertainly clambering out, gaze secured on the shuffling form of the handler, Will bristles jarringly at the cold.

“Dr. Lecter’s sent stuff for you,” a vein-riddled pale hand gesticulated the rich russet baskets that lay in arrays on the porch. “Asked me to get in some supplies from town for you and then that – that’s something he said I should give you directly, ‘utmost importance’ he said to   
me.”

The wicker carrier in question is colored slightly darker in hue than the rest, draped in the palest of cerulean cloth, rousing in Will a recollection of the silk sleeping garb Hannibal had clothed him in for the duration of the stay. Nodding at the handler, Will proceeds dazedly   
inside his home, mind hurrying through the likelihoods of the contents of the basket and in this manner notices not the altered state of the cottage nor the bewildering meekness of his canine wards.

The handler kicks the cottage door aside, arms laden with precariously balanced wicker baskets that land roughly onto Will’s dilapidated table.

“All done,” the man announces gruffly, tipping the dusty hat in Will’s direction. “Dr. Lecter’s taken care of nearly everything you’ll need. Except for a new home and brain really.”

Will stiffens, resentment halting the hand fishing for coins in his pocket.

“Tell him I said thanks,” Will grinds out, offering a small fee regardless of the blithe offense perhaps unintentionally hurled his way.

“No need for that,” Despite the grunt, the wrinkled hand greedily scoops the coins from Will’s palm, shoving them further inside a battered coat to cradle his reward, hand lingering within as if to cement that he did indeed retain extra wages. “Best stay out of trouble, especially   
with the doctor.”

Flush rising on his pallid cheeks, Will shrivels into the coat as the handler departs through the entryway.

Winston whines at his feet, burrowing a damp nose into the pleated trousers, Chester shuffling headfirst through the pack to his warden, rounding out and arriving at Will from the left. Emboldened, his other canines gradually begin scuffle over for a sniff and perchance a treat.

Will strokes Winston with one hand as he cautiously strides through his pack to the wicker carriers lying inconspicuously in wait on his table. Hannibal’s private offering indubitably attracts him, his frame propelling itself onward as his hands spread to slide away the liquid blue   
cloth with a tug of the fastened string. Thighs clenching in heat, Will scrutinizes the pricy sleeping attire, woven in the duskiest of blues. Will considers that Hannibal could possibly take perverse pleasure in clothing him, arraying the pallid bony frame in a diversity of   
overstated flairs, mouth dropping in delight at the thought.

The coat is hastily deposited on a timeworn chair, other articles of clothing subsequently trailing down above it in rushed arousal, dusty boots toed off and tossed onto a sill his canines out of the stretch of his watchful pack. Body bared, save for his brief, Will wrenches the   
silks Hannibal has so prudently made available for him and treads in lust-bathed determination to his bedroom, absently reflecting why he desires to be out of sight of his canine companions. 

The fabric glides over the planes of his body, a sensation Will has grown accustomed to over the last week yet revels in with awe each time it occurs, imagination thrusting forth vivid recollections of how he’d sprawled in slumber on Hannibal’s bed. His tremulous digits pad   
over the material as he reminisces the last week spent in the presence of Hannibal, principally spent endeavoring to spare the man of Will’s sordid interests. Shame filthening his arousal, Will bites his lips, cock hardening between his thighs and tenting the flimsy fabric of his   
clothes.

Hand dropping down further, he presses the heel of his palm against his burgeoning erection, letting his hips crest into the cup of his hand, explosively aroused at the thought of Hannibal’s grounding control.

Gasping as heat streaked through him at the touch, pearly white staining the silk slightly, Will collapses rearward onto the bed, his hand hastily snaking beneath his trousers to grip roughly at his cock as spikes of arousal wrecked his already rutting frame. Mouth parted in   
want, eyelids fluttering as his head lolled back, Will strokes his cock, hand tightening as he wrenched it over his reddened skin, stroking his thumb over the head of cock and smearing the precum to relieve himself. 

Hips thrusting erratically as his hand fisted his cock, Will’s mind conceives an illusion of a clothed Hannibal bracketing him from above, muscled arms on either side of his head, rendering him essentially imprisoned as Hannibal’s hips grinds into his, clothed erections brushing.   
The unkind grating sends Will’s knees upwards as his hips gave way to the older man’s. Will cries out as he imagines Hannibal immobilizing Will, hands held against the sheets within one of Hannibal’s own as the man braces himself before violently pounding down into Will,   
crushing their cocks together as lips descended and devoured Will’s own. Will whines at the punishing action, demanding of ingenuine imagining. 

The Hannibal overhead slows in thrusting and parts from the kiss, mouth lazed open in drawing breaths. Will’s hand is quicker now, tugging at his foreskin and trailing his nail through his slit, hips jerking upwards distraughtly as reeling arousal filled his body and senses.

Will observes through slit eyes as this Hannibal’s subtle smile broadens as he lowers himself closer, faces only a breath away, swollen lips and heady breathes mingling with each torturously deliberate thrust. Will tugs at his ensnared wrists, whining as Hannibal refuses to   
change pace, the illusion darkening with blanket of rusty obsidian as liquid gold eyes turned a strikingly murky red, hands sharpening into talon-baring claws. Hips still jerking in arousal, Will sobs, head thrashing to the side as he pleads to the thing atop him.

“Will,” the croon that leaves the parted lips of the creature raises bumps on Will’s skin. “My beautiful boy.”

Will chokes at his rampant mind, but the hand wound around his cock only speeds up.

“My beautiful boy,” it breathes domineeringly, hips gyrating forcefully against Will’s own. “Beautiful William. Now!”

Will lets out a thick breathy moan as his hand roughly fists his cock, his taut thighs shuddering with the force of his orgasm, stilling as his peak crests over him, hip arching off the bed, pearly white spilling into his cupped palm, shielding the pale silk from damning stains. The   
tingling aftershocks of climax leaves him limp as he brushes his coated palm absently against a cloth lain over the headboard before slumping in sated lethargy, body chilled from the revelation granted to him by his warped fancies. 

The identity of the creature is not foreign to him. It only frightens him how pliant and aroused he’d been when he’d been writhing beneath it. 

\---

Practiced schedules resume over the following few days. Will washes and launders, noting the altered design of home, a more practical and intelligible one. Whomsoever Hannibal had acquired for the task has done strikingly in the care and amendment of Will’s cottage.   
Occasionally, he’d chanced on new items placed in odd niches, little contributions he instantly attributes to Hannibal. 

Afflicted by intermittent ruminations of Hannibal, Will had been rather inattentive upon arrival, but had managed to sufficiently recollect his composure, refraining from indulging bleak thoughts of the man. Will had always known when to curb his desires, afraid of the   
repugnance he was sure to face in light of the revelation of his attraction.

Scoffing faintly, Will rubs Walnut’s head as the canine whines at being neglected. 

The echoing of a harsh rap on the worn wood of the cottage door breaks his winding thoughts. Depositing his current reading material on the table and with a pointed look sent to his pack demanding appropriate conduct, Will shuffles to the door. Outside stands an ornate   
carriage and a handler brandishing a sealed letter which Will gathers is a missive. Youthful and with the countenance of displeasure, the rigid limb presents Will with the opulent envelope.

“A missive,” the youth’s voice is light in its pronouncement, scornful gaze dragging over Will, disdain palpable on the pursed lips and flushed visage. “The esteemed Physician Chilton would like to request a visit. Read the damn thing, Graham.”

Will’s lips thin as he glares at the driver’s coat for a moment, blundering hands gradual in tearing the missive open, gratification tingling his limbs with warmth as the handler-youth winces at the crass action. The pitifully brief paragraph taunts him from the luxuriant paper.   
Frowning at the touchy handler, Will gathers the paper and envelop close, eyes scanning the delicately scrawled sentences. 

William,

Jack Crawford has departed from my consultation under the impression that you may play a bigger part in the recurrent brutal murders than anyone has so far postulated. Rather interesting was his reaction I explicated the implications of the girl as a possible courting gift. In   
this light, perhaps we can come to a mutually beneficial arrangement over tea – in half an hour. 

Physician Frederick Chilton

Will’s blood burns at the mention of the both men. Crawford and Chilton are enough to hark back thoughts of his current strenuous condition with Baltimore. 

“Alright,” Ire writhing within him, Will motions to the carriage with one hand, the other unthinkingly tucking the letter away inside his coat. “I’m supposed to come with you now?”

He receives only sneers before the handler jerks his head towards the expectant carriage, horses’ hooves digging jadedly into the dirt beneath them. 

Will gently ushers his whining canines inside, placating an eager Winston with a few well aimed scratches between the ears. 

“I’m not going to be gone for long,” Will is resolute in his objective, giving his pack a once over before striding out the door, latching and keying it in place behind him. The handler-youth is stiffly seated and only gestures for Will to quicken his pace. Clambering inside the   
warm chamber and settling into the polished leather of the seat, Will thrusts himself forward just enough to rap his knuckles against the wood to signal that he’s sufficiently ready for the trip and the carriage lurches forward with a slow tug. 

Trees and gates pass by, blurred by the drawn drapes as Will postulates why exactly Chilton would have sent him the missive at such an odd time, aside from the obvious implications explicated poorly in writing. The town appeared uncannily noiseless in acquiescence of Will’s   
desire to ponder about the machinations of Chilton and Jack. Will desperately wishes for Hannibal’s aid. Perhaps it had been blunder on his part to assume that he could work with the Royal Guard, occasionally intent on prosecuting Will.

Raucous in profligacy, Chilton’s abode glared at Will through the fluttering drapes as the carriage drew to a crawl outside it. Will exhausted no time in tugging the entry open, much to the delight of the handler, and ascended the steps, curt nod directed to the butler awaiting   
him in the entrance gallery.

It is easy enough to discern where Chilton lies in wait for him. 

There exists, within the winding corridors, a room the physician is excessively fond of, perfect to corner those who render themselves patients. Incensed, Will strides through the dim hallway, the butler steering them to their destination. Glancing to the side, Will is graced with   
a pointed look from the pudgy man towards a slightly ajar door at one end.

Thrusting the door inwards, Will enters, footsteps decelerating in caution. He winces as he realizes he’s hurtled here ill-equipped and unqualified. Chilton is slouched restfully and with ease sipping what Will assumes is wine. An untouched platter of cut fruits glaze with honey   
graces the small table in front of the man. Chilton only affords him a keen stare before letting his gaze drift unhurriedly to the other seat, a glass of wine settled before its place on the table. 

Chilton eyes the frazzled man wrapped in none other than Hannibal Lecter’s coat.

“Good evening, Will,” Chilton’s drawl – one that grates Will’s ears – the greeting accompanied by a wave directed at the vacant seat. Will dawdles briefly, eyeing the glass of wine and fruits pointedly before settling into the cushioned chair. “I take you read through the missive   
entirely?”

The duping delight is concealed only just, the ease of his composure disconcerting Will, who ponders on what else the probing physician has unearthed. Shielding himself with a brief shake of assent, Will angles his frame away from Chilton, ire flickering weakly, ineffective in   
compelling eye contact with Chilton. 

“What of it, then?”

The poor attempt at directing the exchange draws out a scoff from Will. 

“I came didn’t I?” he mutters, fidgeting as Chilton shifts to peer at Will clearly, yet manages to hold his own, despite the dearth of a grounding presence. 

Condemning tuts accompanied the slide of the wine glass closer to Will’s reach. 

“Why don’t we relax a little while we speak about this? After all, you must be properly alarmed by the contents of my letter,” mocking delight floods Will’s ears as Chilton’s words settle in. The man is astutely certain of the advantage he has over Will in their current state and the   
lilts of the tenor leaves Will queasy in consideration. Chilton leans forward, propelling himself into Will’s breathing space with glinting eyes and an eager mouth. “Don’t you want to know how I arrived at those particular conclusions?”

“You’re going to tell me anyways, whether I like it or not,” Shuddering slightly as he attempts to pull back and retreat from the man’s advancing frame, the scent of detrimental curiosity and misguided greed swathes him in a sickening cover. 

The chortle that erupts from the physician convulses the strains on his neck, face reddening impossibly as he drops his head to cover the developing crick. Serves him right, Will thinks heatedly, eyeing the preoccupied man in the cover of the incident. 

“Correct,” the delight of maneuvering Will overrides the pain in Chilton and brings to fore once more the entitled condescension. “Jack was rather attentive when I explained the little symbols the Ripper had laid out in his last kills. The pig, the lotuses, the womb of blood,   
extremely fertile imagery there. And they’re intended for a certain someone who can piece it all together and reach a conclusion none of us could – even with the implications explained. We’d all think it to be a mere representation of fertility, showing us the potential of the   
girl.”

Chilton smirked at Will’s disconcerted quaking frame, “Only the intended would see the display as courting gift, something to represent the fertility that could only result or occur in consummation.”

The odd gleam in Chilton’s eyes as he enunciates the final words raises bile in Will’s convulsing throat.

“Do you want to know why she was chosen?” The conspiratory whisper brushes against his face. 

Will narrows his eyes, hidden beneath limp curls. “Her father?”

“Ms. Lounds,” Chilton returns to his seat, bristling in elation as the beastly woman’s name rolls of his tongue. An uncannily shrewd woman, he thinks, who plays her cards haphazardly – something instinctive informs him of her impending death. “He’s quite a faithful listener of her stories of you. The father enjoys occupying time during time meetings with expletives slandering you in support of Lounds. Poor man isn’t going to take too well to his daughter’s death and I think we all know where exactly he’s going to direct the blame.”

Will despises the glee Chilton appears to acquire in his comprehension of the unfolding of future events. 

“Did you know,” Chilton states airily, tongue peeking out to lathe over lips wet from a sip, the conversation pausing in anticipation. “He’s going to ban you from town, and this time, you’re likely to be served with a sentence when everyone begins to corroborate the stories   
about you.”

Pallid digits digging into the thick material of his coat, Will attempts to reign in his raging emotions. 

“He can’t do that,” Will’s gaze rises to Chilton’s collar, ire coursing through him at the actions of the irrational man, momentarily perturbed by a niggling sneer in his mind supportive of the decision of the townsfolk. 

“At this point, what with Ms. Lounds having figured out that you’re too connected to the Ripper, perhaps you should consider this as your inevitable future.”

Composure explosively dissipating, Will lurches forward to rise from the chair, restrained only by Chilton gripping his wrist, hand twisting around it and clutching it tightly, tugging him forward. Stumbling slightly on the way over, Will attempts to regulate their distance by   
bracing himself with his free hand on the other hand of the seat, face perilously close to the physician’s. 

“You should perhaps invest in some protection, or stay with someone well-off for the time being,” Chilton murmurs, eyes roaming over Will’s own – sealed in nausea. “Someone who is best suited to understand you and take care of your needs. After all, that’s what’s causing all   
this to occur, isn’t it?”

“All this?” Will chokes out, voice faint in incredulity.

Chilton merely raised a brow, “the killings and the connection with the ripper, of course.”

“Are these the lies you’ve told Jack?” Will’s tone escalates, piercing through Chilton’s composure, irately hissing out his accusation as he futilely attempts to tug his arm away from the man, wanting to create space between them both. “What are you playing at, Chilton? I refuse   
you continuously and I will continue to say no. You – you should think twice before you say any to Jack Crawford or Freddie Lounds.”

“What of what I spoke to Jack? It is true isn’t it?” Chilton’s genuinely bewilderment halts Will who lets the man speak plainly. “You’re worrying too much. With someone like me beside you, with our arrangement, I can guarantee that nothing will affect you.”

“You apparently don’t know how Jack thinks.”

Chilton’s lack of foresight only serves to fuel Will’s wrath. 

“You don’t trust Jack then?” Chilton’s confoundment had fled, the hand on Will’s wrist tightening to the point of stinging pain. “You and Hannibal both then. What an interesting pair.”

“Ha- Dr. Lecter?”

The cold pleasure from Chilton stuns Will into silence. 

“Hannibal then,” Chilton notes the preference. Smirking, Chilton abandons his hold on Will’s wrist, standing and drawing himself upward to greater heights, leaving Will vulnerable, resulting in the empath directing his gaze to the carpeted floor. A hand reaches to tap his shoulder and Will is abruptly overcome with lightheadedness. Losing equilibrium, Will tips over, Chilton’s calls of his name drowned out by the thundering waves of pounding faintness that overtakes him. 

\---


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm actually wondering what happened to my writing style. Comment and tell me what you think of the plot. I've finally figured out the plot and everything but I'm kind of worried about how the story is progressing. Comment and let me know if you like it or if you want to change some stuff up or if you have any ideas for future plot. Thanks and hope you enjoy this chapter!

The incident at Chilton’s home continues to distress Will. At the physician’s light touch, Will had rather abruptly fainted. Chilton, perhaps wanting to displace blame, had assigned the passing out to the extreme stress and tension accumulated in his body, causing Will to collapse. Though he had desired to vehemently oppose such an explication, Will had been more focused on escaping back home. He’d only been angry and a little worked up, though not as wound up as he’d been during his collapse at the Ripper’s crime scene – his collapse this time had been caused by something else entirely. 

Rubbing at his creased forehead, Will ruminates with barely suppressed angst if his condition is only worsening with his work on the Ripper case. Though the conditional degradation seems glaringly obvious, Will chooses to set it aside for the moment. It is not time yet to consider such options. 

Try as he might, he cannot recollect a thing of how and when he had lost consciousness. The memory blackout is worrisome and makes him wonder if such things were to be a regular occurrence in the future. He can already imagine the town’s reactionary politics to this information. What else has he lost in this manner? 

He continues to let his thoughts trail, sunken into the worn seat of a rather shabby carriage that is currently carrying him to the far end of Baltimore, where the buildings housing the offices of the Royal Guard lie. Jack Crawford, giving into the urgency of the situation, has at last called him in for an official consultation visit.

Thick drapes strategically arranged and fixed to the walls hide the carriage’s parcel from the townspeople, a carefully thought out move by the Guard, aware of the fact that the only available routes traverse thought the most eventful streets of the town. All of them are wary of the repercussions of a full frontal entrance, so he’s being carted inside from the back entry. The unorthodox access point, Will is familiar with, is more often used to usher in suspects. Protection has been subtly fortified, yet Will can quite easily discern an air of apprehension and unease within everyone involved. 

The carriage draws to a halt before a heightened structure, towering over the worn establishments surrounding it. A murky russet and refined, light from inside falls in streaks onto the dirty streets below. The handle, one of Royal Guard issue, drops down – to scout the area for possible hazards, Will assumes – before rapping on the door twice, short and strict as discussed, and Will clambers to exit, door handle slipping slightly in worry-slicked hands. 

Numerous guard, seemingly occupied with preparations for a rounding of the city, filter through in the courtyard. A ruse to mask his arrival amidst the flurry of Guards, handlers, and general department members. A clever screen, though there are the customary enthusiasts already assimilated the outer fence. 

Will hurries through the harried crowd, the dearth of an entourage simplifying his climb through the mess of the preparations to the elevated building. The darker tones he’d elected makes him only a scurrying blur in the swarm of men prepping in the courtyard. At a glance, the number of congregated townspeople appears to be minimal. Stumbling on the steps in his anxious haste, Will is aided upright by the hand of another Guard. Flustered, Will manages to stutter out an apology and his gratitude before resuming his climb to the offices.   
In the measly crowd, a woman adjusts the white bonnet obscuring her bright ginger hair. 

\---

Once inside, Will is promptly directed to Jack Crawford’s office. Assuming the position of the Head had certainly granted Jack some privileges, Will thinks, as he takes in the lavish office. It is his first visit to the establishment, all other consultations he has participated in had been conducted in the form of social visits to his dilapidated home, the Royal Guard petrified of his potential to let him anywhere near the storehouse of data, wary of things that could otherwise trigger the empath once he learns of the things stockpiled. 

The concern is simple enough to comprehend, as Will himself is distrustful of his latent abilities. 

The office is spacious in its dim hickory and currant hues, so stark in the display of sparse trinkets signaling a decorated service career and a more stringent disposition. Will yearns for the comfort of Hannibal’s study, where he’d lethargically lounged, amply occupied by the doctor’s absurdly extensive book collected, mind swept by drowsiness yet comforted by the smell of the first edition in his hands. He’d only wanted to attempt to unravel Hannibal, to glean something of the man through his tastes – and Hannibal had made ample annotations and arguments in the margins of his copies. Will glances at the longcase clock ticking away, tucked into the narrow corner of the room, aware that Jack intends to make him wait. The power play is despicable, though his submission serves well to soothe Jack’s apprehensions.

Gradually, he makes his way over, selecting a ruffled couch to deposit himself into, the material offering enough comfort for him to sink into it should the need arise. He slumps unattractively, hands rising to rub roughly at weary eyes laden with anxiety, then turning upwards to run harshly through sweat-matted curls on his forehead and through his wild curls, entangled from his head having rested against the seating of the carriage for the entire journey. Elbows lowered to rest on his knees, Will closes his eyes to grant them temporary relief. 

The sound of the door and light footsteps escapes the notice of the empath. Jack seats himself behind his desk, setting files aflutter with a larger deposit as he waits for Will to gather himself. 

Strained from his daily efforts, Jack finally clears his throat, announcing his presence. The empath startles from his reverie and peers at Jack warily, sighing when he receives an impatient-raised brow. Will looks haphazard and beat, more so than usual, despite his mandated recovery period and the worn-out disposition is worrisome. Rather, its implications are. Chilton’s elucidations of the connection between the Ripper and his empath is concern enough for Jack at the moment. 

“Will,” Jack commences, attempting to gradually draw the empath out of his headspace. 

Jack observes as Will bristles, straightening himself to the best of his ability and leaning forward. Hannibal’s rehabilitation is commendable, there is a noteworthy transformation in the way the smaller man now carries himself. 

“We need to go over some things if we’re going to have on this full time,” Jack peers at the hunched man over neat streamlined spectacles, the light from the window glinting dangerously into his sight. “We’ve come up with stuff I need you to verify, or read into.”  
Will manages a nod.

The head of the Royal Guard glares at Will before reaching out to shuffle through the files on his desk. Will spots several sketches amidst the reports. The files at the far end, topple off from the meticulous arrangement, but the man handling them only shoves them to the side, ire escalating as he flips through the reports in search of a specific one. 

“Go through this,” Will is beckoned forward to the seat in front of the desk with a flick of a dark wrist. Hesitantly he rises from his position, unwilling to be in close proximity to the man: the heady authority the man commands is not something he would submit to voluntarily, after all. Will finds himself reaching for Hannibal once more and flushes at his vulnerability – his dependency and incapacity to function without a constant reminder of the physician. This level of besotted reliance Will attributes to his escalating affections for the man. 

Will settles, as best he can, into the cushioned wooden chair, faded file falling open in his hands. There are several worn sheets and a few new ones, from the two kills he’d been privy to. The hand rendered images are oddly lifelike but devoid of the signification that had troubled them all. He glances at the other drawings on the desk before returning to his perusal of the file’s contents. 

Will’s passing glance does not go unnoticed. 

“Price and Zeller found other victims with the same kind of cuts. We’re just comparing and weeding them out now,” Jack motions to the scattered art. Will itches to go through them, instinct informs him of an impending reward. Jack continuous, oblivious to Will’s wandering thoughts. “There have been plenty of similar kills, but we haven’t made any other connections yet. Surgical cuts are the only breakthrough really, and specific cutting styles are pretty tough to distinguish without professional help.”

Darkened slits of graphite on the paper, the cuts are not the sole allure drawing Will.

“Will!” The bark is laced with impatience and a touch of awaiting wrath. 

Tearing his gaze away, Will returns to the report with a raging curiosity tingling beneath his skin.

“If you actually read,” Jack snorts blithely, “You would’ve realized that Olmstead and the girl have no obvious connection whatever. Try and figure that one out. That’s two so far from our side. We’ve got cases from other nearby cities and territories lined up for review.” 

The report faultlessly illustrates a lack of connection between Olmstead and the Hobbs girl. The illustrations Will inspects tell a different tale. Olmstead, a hedonistic swine, drawn to his vice and governed by it. There’s a sense of redemption of the body that the kills bequeaths to the man. Hobbs is an offering, a hand of courtship, a shift in the employment of body, of edifice. Both appear oddly attached. Will’s eyes drift to the carved abdomen, laden with a treasurable bounty. 

The jingle of heavy coins thrust at a handler rings faintly as Will pales.

“Olmstead is an offering,” Will breathes, recognition flailing through him. Olmstead had transgressed, on what Will knows not, but the transgression had incensed the Ripper enough to create an offering. Though Will discerns that this too may be intended for him, he desperately desires it not to be, he’d only been brought on to the Ripper case due to this kill. Any connection to Olmstead would firmly establish Will as a suspect. 

“What?” Jack inquires sharply, body thrust forward over the table. 

The design is similar. 

“He’s an offering,” Will repeats, voice raised, waving the file at an irate Jack. 

The man glares at him, mouth tight, body language indicates for Will to continue and elaborate. 

“It’s an appeasement of sorts for a mistake that Olmstead made. The Ripper’s setting it up that way. It’s an offering of appeasement.”

“What does that mean then?” Jack inquires wearily, rubbing a hand over his drawn face. “Are we going to have to go through everybody Olmstead’s ever crossed?”

“No,” Will corrects, mind occupied with various strains of possibilities for the Ripper’s design. “It could be something small. We don’t know the Ripper’s disposition, so it may not make sense to us, it won’t be obvious to us. Only to him.”

Jack’s eyes narrow at Will’s suggestion.

“We do nothing?” Will receives the snide remark with a wince, alarm-induced perspiration has plastered his curls to his forehead. “Put yourself in his place, Graham, that’s what we hired you for.”

The file nearly slips out of Will’s hand at the directive. 

“The last time I attempted that, it didn’t turn out so well for me,” Will is hesitant to step into the shoes of the receiver, though he has an irksome inkling that Olmstead too is associated with himself. Jack’s attempts to command him vexes Will more so than the thought that he   
might have arrested the attention of the Ripper, and resulting, he attempts to play off Olmstead as an inconsequential kill. “There’s no real connection to the one who the offense was directed towards, it’s the action itself that drew out the Ripper’s anger, probably.”

Will nearly squirms at his own white lie as Jack’s narrowed eyes examine him intently. 

“Alright,” The acceptance is cautious and skeptical at best. “What else connects them both?”

“Infractions,” Perhaps near enough to the truth for Jack to work with. “Something both of them did, by surrogacy or by themselves. Enough to term them as pigs, granted beatification by his hands.”

“Brilliant,” A flung folder causes a few more of those tipping precariously over the edge of the desk to flutter down before Will, the sketches within tumbling out. Discarding his own file, Will reaches for the other one, hastily widening it to view its contents. The rendering is of a youthful boy, wound around the twisted metal of a bicycle, apples and chrysanthemums inserted through emptied orifices, bound together with household yarn, heavy with the blood of the boy as he squirms against the cold metal trappings.

“-ill!”

“This is his design.”

Only the vigilance drilled into every Royal Guards enables Jack to catch Will’s murmur.

“His design?”

The acerbic tone is a blow to Will, expectant of common courtesy from his superior. Olmstead continues to concern him. Eyes drifting, Will discerns another sketch with the same thick strokes of blood. Hands drawn towards it, Will snatches the fallen file from its place amidst   
others and rips it open in shock.

Another one then, Will thinks, as bile floods his mouth. 

The rendering is darker, an older woman, lain curled with arms splayed in an upwards reach, body draped in a pristine checkered cloth, blues and whites against the soft grass sprouting beneath the steps she lies upon, arms twined together with barbed wire, pleading, mouth cut open, the blade slicing from the edge of the mouth through to the bones, revealing a gluttony of want, want, want –

“Graham!”

Will snaps his head towards the man, eyes widened in alarm. Only then does he realize his position on the floor of the office, knees against hardened wood, hands convulsing slightly. 

“This one too-” Will rasps, raising the file.

“Great,” The both of them are tensed and winded, albeit for disparate reasons. “How many more?”

Will scatters the files before him. Odd replications, lacking the signification and finesse, yet a perfect mimesis of the Ripper’s own. A copycat.

“They’re not his.”

“And how in hell do you know that?” Jack inquires, peering down from his position above the desk. 

Will shuffles through sketches of a man displayed as a bird rising upward in flight. 

“They’re lacking,” his brows furrow as he rises, snatching files off the table and flipping through them hastily. The set they have at the moment is incomplete. Early forties perhaps, the man is seated at a table, nude, the lavish dish half in his hollowed face, skin seared for the appetizers and entrails braised for artful arrays.

“I can’t read your mind Will.”

“It’s three,” Will murmurs. “He’s killing in threes.”

The perplexed countenance Jack lets flit across himself for a fleeting moment is tinged with indignation.

“Why exactly is that?”

“Sounders,” Will recalls from bucolic memories of farm-tending with his distant father. “Small groups of pigs, prey.”

“These kills are months apart,” Jack indicates the files grasped within Will’s tremulous hands. “The ones we’re dealing with are weeks apart.”

“They’re courting gifts,” Will expounds, fluttering the sheets in his flurry. “He kills based on- ”

“They?” The snarl sets Will on edge. “You don’t –”

“Jack, Will,” Hannibal’s greeting is measured, eyes darting intently from an irate Jack to a withering Will, hidden behind the other’s larger frame. Will’s pale skin glistens with the sheen of anxiety, files slithering in a hand clutched close to the heart. Of importance then, Hannibal notes, taking in the crass artwork and reports, some depicting murders. “Have you made progress?”

“You’re late,” Jack snaps. “You missed the grand show.”

Hannibal’s eyes remain riveted on the empath, frozen rigid and belaying any sort of contact from a sense of shame, no doubt from the unearthing that has recently occurred within the office. 

“Said the Ripper’s killed before, we thought the old ones weren’t all connected, but he’s been piecing together kills from other areas,” Jack waves Hannibal over to another seat. “The Ripper’s killing in threes. Sounders, like little groups of pigs, that’s what he sees these people as, apparently. Will’s already located one, but the kills are months apart. Says the Ripper’s killing faster now that the kills are courting gifts.”

Hannibal catches the imperceptible narrowing of Jack’s eyes.

“How Olmstead’s a courting gift, when Will wasn’t even on the case then, I’d like to know,” Jack bites out, Will startling at the accusation.

“Look,” It is endearing to see Will attempt to play at Jack’s disposition, Hannibal watches as the appeasement and misdirection pours out of the mouth of his empath. “I’m not sure it’s a courting gift at all, it’s more of an appeasement. I wouldn’t read too much into it.”  
For whatever reason, Will is attempting to misallocate the implication of the design. Hannibal intends to remedy that soon enough, though he does maintain a slight note of sympathy for Will at Jack’s insistent accusations and labels. His gaze catching Will’s own, Hannibal addresses Jack instead,

“Perhaps the Ripper intentionally directed you to Will,” Sowing seeds of doubt in a paranoid disposition is effortless, the man in question leveling a glare at Hannibal as the implications of the action becomes evident. “A chance encounter, intensive enough, would have rendered the generation of a fixation. One that Will’s nature, and Ms. Lounds’ narratives, perchance cultivated.”

“Are you saying the Ripper’s met Will before?” Jack’s eyes swivel to the empath, interest relegated once more to the conversation at hand, previous strain of thought disregarded. Jack’s suspicions, viable yet accessible, offering prospect enough for Hannibal’s influence. Hannibal acquiesces the allegation with a slight nod. 

“Quite possibly,” Hannibal’s modulation lowers, speech decelerating as an indication of an initial deliberation of the situation. “It is highly unlikely that the encounter would have made an impact on Will.”

The turbulence in the room between the three men appears to dissipate slightly at the statement, though the rigidity of Jack’s frame continues to hold them in play. 

“Well?” The inquiry is directed towards Will. Hannibal observes as Will shuffles the papers in his grasp, evading, the rising scent of dread and weariness developing around the empath. “You can’t tell that’s all you’ve got?”

Knuckles rapping on the slightly ajar door interrupts the accusatory taint of the exchange. Prussian coattails of a general Guard sweep into the room, brown eyes flickering over to a seated Hannibal before appraising a apprehensive Will.

“There’s a meeting, sir,” A jerk of the head in the direction of the Head of the Royal Guard. “They’re asking for you.”

Jack’s narrowed eyes fixate on Will, unsure of leaving the two other men to their own devices, both sharing a newly formed bond since the events of the last consultation. His last visit to Hannibal’s manor had quite distinctly drawn out the parameters of the relationship between physician and patient as an unconventional one, atypical interactions ringing throughout the dinner. Doubt festers easily at the thought, despite Jack’s long time liaison with the physician. Despite his hesitancy, Jack draws himself up and towards the general Guard. 

“If I take too long, Will, you’re going home, is that clear?” Jack commands, weighing the possibilities lain before him. “No social visits.”

Will jerks his head to the side at the dismissal. 

Jack sends them both glares before stalking out the door, general Guard hot on his heels. 

Both men remain still as the heavy footfalls cease to resound through the corridor and eventually join the clamor of voices and bustling boots in the main hall. Hannibal is the first to move, startling the empath as the physician enters into personal space and brushes gently curls dampened with stress, drawing Will up for forcible eye contact. 

“You are feverish.” Hannibal murmurs in observation, hands caressing hair. “Perhaps we ought to seat ourselves comfortably as we wait for Jack’s return.”

The smaller man withdraws from Hannibal’s touch, cautiously moving through fallen sheets to reach a wooden stool at the far end of the office and slumping upon it resignedly. Curious at the jaded reaction, Hannibal follows, standing to swathe Will’s frame in his own. An assertion of control and dominance as he leans over the petite frame to place a hand on Will’s shoulder, kneading the taut muscles knotted beneath his hand. Pressure on the shoulder, firm and aimed down into the knots, eases them open and turns the body in his grasp languid in return.

Warily, Will permits himself to lean into the touch. Hannibal, he thinks, is simply concerned for his wellbeing, and the strong presence provided is a luxury he cannot always afford, but does not desire to repel with his pessimism and abnormality. Then there exists the instinct to reciprocate, albeit in a manner he cannot help but imagine as sensual. Flushing at his wayward thought, Will attempts to shrug off the hand on his shoulder, the dependency he realizes he’d built up shaming him and further invigorating his actions. He needs to stand on his own, Hannibal’s permanent presence by his side is not guaranteed and it is not a likely scenario.

“The courting gifts,” Will begins hoarsely, wanting to at least allow Hannibal to aid him in this, confiding in the professional ability and the friendship they’ve built up. Hannibal had performed rather superbly for Will in this aspect. “I’m not sure how to react.”  
Hannibal sees only a reluctance to accede to reality.

“Truthfully, perhaps, and without infidelity.”

Will raises lidded eyes to Hannibal’s own.

“Infidelity.”

Not a question, but a statement, close enough to a form of acquiescence that Hannibal lets his touches soften and decelerate, languid and lusting in their intentions. 

“To own’s own nature,” Hannibal elaborates, sweltering with the desire to draw out Will’s true character in a wholly disparate manner. Will is rather close to his transformation. His prey is lucid in his interpretations and his sentiments. “Infidelity through a rebuttal and misrepresentation of the self. What do you think of them, Will?”

Will can only wonder of the Ripper’s reaction to his infidelity of self. 

The turmoil within his mind is no longer of what he feels, it relates more to his considerations of his emotions.

“They,” The attempt is feeble, and Will catches a brief flash of dissatisfaction in Hannibal. He gathers himself to try once more, unwilling to disrespect the rapport or whatever more he has with the physician. “I don’t think Jack would let me out of his sight is he heard me speaking about them like this, but I find them interesting.”

Appealing and stimulating, Hannibal discerns from the revelation, anticipation of future designs and their implications. The desirability of the artful arrays for the empath Hannibal had quite easily foreseen, what he had not is the light flush of arousal arising from Will, bathing the usual scent of illness and trepidation. Inhaling imperceptibly, Hannibal is drawn into the saccharine aroma that prophesies a saccharine triumph. He steps forward, crowding them both in the meager space the stool provides. 

“Will,” The touch granted to Will is intended to disconcert, hand reaching to brush his thumb across Will’s blood flushed cheek, chin cupped delicately within his grasp. A floundering Will is exquisite, eyes rising in alarm before darting away, stance sturdier now, yet still wary. “It is but a natural reaction for someone of your disposition.”

No quite so.

Will’s connection to the Ripper is one Hannibal has labored to mature.

Coloring further at the intimate, perhaps sensual contact instigated by Hannibal between them both, Will falls into the touch, lids fluttering lower as Hannibal maneuvers his chin upwards. Fearful apprehension rises at the thought of what Hannibal has painted across his visage.   
The thumb brushes dangerously near his lips and Will parts them in shock and repressed delight, tongue peeking out to wet them in a desperate anticipation of things Will knows he is not fortunate enough to be granted.

“Will,” Repeated utterances of his name in Hannibal’s deep tenor reverberates in his mind as he shivers at the touch of Hannibal, a man insistent on tormenting him so. The thumb presses down upon the corner of his parted lips and Will’s breath hitches as both men still at the act – Will in despondency and Hannibal in rapture of Will’s fluctuating scent. Hannibal pauses, thumb still, half on Will’s soft lips and half on flushed skin, observing silently as Will’s agitation grows. 

Flushing further at the intimate, possible sensual contact between both of them, Will leans into the touch, lids fluttering closed as Hannibal raised his chin gently. He doesn’t want to see whatever Hannibal could possibly have painted across his visage. The thumb brushes dangerously close to his lips, and Will parts them, tongue peeking out to wet them in a desperate anticipation Will knows will not be fulfilled.

“Will,” Hannibal’s timber is soft and deep, the sound reverbing in his mind as he shivers at Hannibal’s touch, the man insisted on torturing him so. The thumb presses down on the corner of his parted lips and Will’s breath hitches as both men still at the act – Will in desperateness and Hannibal in rapture of Will’s nerve-wracked disposition. He waits, thumb half on Will’s lip and half on flushed skin, and watches as the empath only continues to grow more agitated. 

Deep footfalls passing outside the office forces them to part, Will having jerked himself away from the physician in fright. Humiliation tinges the air between them and a slight note of disgust that nearly evades Hannibal’s senses. Will stumbles free of the stool and straightens his clothes in futility over and over again in anxiety as they both appraise the situation. 

Hannibal permits the dithering for a short while before asserting himself with his hand reaching out to grasp a fiddling arm. 

“Apologies, Will,” Hannibal’s tone is remorseful, self-reprimanding in light of the representation he has crafted for Will. An extension of consideration for the actions, and the rueful countenance rightly alarms Will. “My attentions towards you are of an unprofessional nature. I do not intend to pressure you with them however. I only find myself gradually drawn to you with intensity and it appears I am woefully incapable of controlling myself.”

Will’s shock renders him immobile within Hannibal’s grasp, eyes darting to Hannibal’s to assess the verity of the statements. 

“If you so desire to part with me, work with another, I understand,” Hannibal rests and flicks his gaze to Will’s parted lips in expectation. “I would advise so, rather. I cannot seem to hold back.”

Will’s tongue runs over his tongue unbidden and he attempts to close them, yet they part once more on their own, heart thudding away within his chest. Will cannot comprehend the attentions of the man before him, the gift of such a man to him. Part of him desires to let the attraction run its course, to finally be in possession of what he has always seen in the hands not his own, yet a part of him fears abandonment once Hannibal is exposed to the true extent of his freakish abnormalities. 

“No- ” Will manages to choke out, fists curling and uncurling at his sides, his entire self wavering between coveting and declining.

Hannibal draws closer, aware of the uncertainty wracking the frame of the smaller man. One hand he lets slide upwards to cup Will’s nape, permitting his eyes to betray a modicum of the lust he has for Will, the man caught in his arms trembling at the rapid onslaught of sensations Hannibal is providing. Unprecedented actions are almost always a seamless manner in which to corner others, and Will appears lovely, flushed and awaiting in a trap of Hannibal’s making. 

Will manages to shove one foot behind to brace himself, but Hannibal’s grip is firm as his face closer to the empath’s own. Will’s expressiveness is so much more, Hannibal observes, in lucidity.  
“Hannibal –”

Ignoring the cry, Hannibal draws them both together. Will’s doubts are rampant, yet his attraction only desires to let everything run course to fruition. Their lips are close, brushing, and Will struggles to escape the hold and ramifications of yielding to his desires. 

“Hannibal.”

Shivers wrack Hannibal’s body at the lusty tenor Will’s pleading voice has taken on. An observable shift has occurred, sensed by both, and Will no longer desires to fight it with his entire self. There remains a sense of submission of control to Hannibal, one that Will is unconsciously utilizing. Once more, Hannibal determines, and he stills, alarming Will.

“Will,” Hannibal murmurs into the space between them, awaiting a response from his trapped prey. The tremulous man’s hands rise to place themselves on his pristine charcoal suit, body leaning into his in acceptance of the advances directed at him. Pulling Will in for a tender brush of their lips, Hannibal parts to permit their breaths to mingle. Gentler still, he once more slots their lips together, Will’s own soft and wet against his as they part for Hannibal. The hands on his chest tugs him closer, wary of the pricey suit they hold within their grasp. Will is altogether more gratifying in his lucidity, pliant lips travelling across Hannibal’s own. Though there is a distinct lack of the ravenous lust Hannibal is aware Will houses, the sentimental kisses are pleasuring in their own manner. Hannibal drinks in the compliance of a coherent Will, his machinations rewarding in their motions. Will whines at Hannibal pushes him further into the kiss, soft whimpers breaking through the air as he lathes his tongue over the inside of Will’s mouth, devouring and marking in their trajectory. Hannibal presses a few more open-mouthed kisses to the lush lips parted in expectation before him before withdrawing slightly, Will slumping into his hold. Gripping the nape of Will’s neck tightly, Hannibal exerts a barely discernable pressure.

Will stiffens for a brief moment before tucking his head into the crook of Hannibal’s neck, curls stroking Hannibal’s skin as they stand amidst the scattered files in the office of Jack Crawford, and Hannibal revels in the triumphant contentment that envelops him.

 

\---


	9. Chapter 9

Hannibal’s company had last been granted to Will during their meeting at the Royal Guard headquarters. Flushing at the recollection of the incident, Will is flooded with satisfaction at having acquired the physician’s undivided attentions. Despite the awaiting carriage, one that   
Hannibal himself had acquired particularly for Will, the man had been clear in his reluctance to part with Will. 

The past few days have been nothing if idyllic for the residents of the cottage, blessedly free of the difficulties brought about by townspeople and their business. Will’s routine, simplified due to hindering thoughts of the physician, has rendered them all in a daze. 

His dogs, however, are a concern to the empath. Perhaps due to his recent irregularity in presence at the cottage or as a result of the caretaker Hannibal had briefly employed, Will finds the behavior of his pack oddly altered. Their responses and comprehension of things seems   
to have expanded, and Will finds himself subjected to their piercing gaze at times, unnerved by the stillness and anticipation in their eyes.

What warrants a visit is the woods, and Will intends to take his canine wards along with him for today’s excursion. Hoisting his satchel, he whistles for the dogs, eyeing them as they hurtle towards him with yips and soft barks of thrill. As Will gently nudges them all through the   
door, he reflects on the potential of a prospective hunt. One that he perceives is inevitable, with the way his hounds have been behaving.

Russet dirt and weeds flatten beneath their feet as they make their way through the front line of trees to the shady undergrowth. The elevated shrubs and vines appear the same no matter the direction and Will warily pulls his pack together with a short whistle as they trudge   
forward. Buster bounces ahead, the golden coat vanishing between the foliage. 

A series of marked trunks reveal the existence of a clearing further ahead, nearing the river. The evening sunlight splinters through the canopy to dot the vegetation of the floor, caressing the small group as they push forward. 

In the silence of the woods, Will doesn’t expect to hear anything abnormal. He doesn’t catch onto the footfalls until the pack has sufficiently separated from him. Will snakes his hand into his satchel, fingers seeking for the handle of his serrated knife. He pauses as he   
considers the steps as his own creation, fashioned from his recent bought of ill mental health. 

The hues of green darken as Will scans them, breathed held as he awaits the reverbs of footsteps, his canines long gone. He retreats, attentive to the sounds he produces as he does so. His peripheral vision, littered with shadows, does little to calm him. The tranquility of the   
woods disappears amidst his overcharged conjectures of the situation. 

Spine rigid from instinctual caution, Will advances, skin raised from his unabated suspicions of a pursuer. Breaking into the clearing, he catches sight of his pack, lounging idly in wait. Their unwound postures indicated that they’d yet to spot anything amiss, yet Will couldn’t   
set aside his unease.

He called for the same golden coat sniffing at the tree-line at the opposite end of the space.

“Buster!” 

\---

“I don’t want this getting out right now,” Jack snarls. “And I don’t want it getting out from Lounds!”

Price winces as he wades through the substantial stream, water entering and dampening his boots.

“We can’t really do anything,” Zeller mutters beneath his breath. “This is going to be eaten up no matter how it gets out.”

Will remains on dry land, awaiting Hannibal’s carriage. He’d had words with Jack, and they had both decided that Will’s performance would be marginally superior under the guidance of the physician. Zeller, Price, and two other swarm around what is presumably, the last kill of   
the Ripper’s sounder.

“Have you identified him?” 

Wincing at Jack’s raised voice, Will shuffles towards the arriving carriage, drawing in through the dried vegetation towards them, hopefully delivering the physician. 

“Yeah,” Price bends down to examine the nude body. “And you’re not going to like it.”

“Just tell me,” Jack growls, approaching the edges of the roaring stream.

“Councilman Verger,” Price calls out, gently lifting the twine wound around the councilman’s nape. “This isn’t going to be good for anyone.”

Jack turns to Will, eyebrows drawn and determined to interrogate. Stumbling backwards and away from the man, Will glances at the approaching physician, the carriage and handler awaiting behind the man.

“Make sure you get a good look at him,” Jack commands Price as he sends in other guards to collect the body. “I don’t want to miss anything, you hear.”

Hannibal brushes his hand across Will’s back, subtly propelling the empath forward, before turning to the head of the Royal Guard, acquiescing to the circumstances with a subtle of his head.

“Before you send him in you might want to look at this,” Price frowns as he brandishes a small pouch, attached to one of the twine taken from the councilman’s body. Splashing towards them, the man deposits the content of the bag into the palm of his hand.

“It’s a house,” Jack’s flat voice oscillates between declaration and inquiry. All eyes swivel to Will. “It’s a fucking house.”

“We got something else,” Zeller gesticulates to an advancing Guard, clutching a leather item within his hands. “Looks like a sheath.”

“Do we have a knife?” Jack calls out, but receives no affirmation from his men. Rounding on those close to him, Jack levels Will with an accusatory glare, peering at the empath from around Hannibal. “And you, are you telling me you don’t have anything on this?”

“I may be of help,” Hannibal cuts in, drawing Jack’s attentions. “Though I am unsure of the signification of the sheath, in medieval times, miniatures were lower class means of gifts to intendeds to represent a greater ambition of promises. If this is another move to court, then   
perhaps the sheath should be examined with the same context.”

“What’s your husband saying now?” Price enquires in Will’s direction. 

“You –”Jack begins. 

“He’s saying that this,” Will interrupts, peering at the miniature of a home before continuing. “Is what he can provide for me.”

“A home?” Jack questions, brows furrowed as he takes the gift into his own hands to peruse it. “Or does he mean somewhere you belong?”

“Maybe,” Will ruminates. “This time I’m not sure what he wants me to think, there’s something missing, I don’t know. He’s growing impatient of everyone and everything standing in his way to me. It’s plain, undecorated, and urgent, I think. Or maybe he’s saying he has me.”

“Does he?” The drop, in tenor and expressivity, of Jack’s voice startles Will. The man appraises Will with heavy eyes before turning to Price and Zeller, drawing them towards him for a private exchange. The two men grant Will a careful scan before departing.

“Go home,” Jack orders. “Lounds is going to have everyone at your neck, so stay inside.”

Hannibal reinserts himself between them with an arm that winds around Will. The action and Hannibal himself fail to arouse any margin the head of the Royal Guard would have commonly granted them.

“He’s going to Wolf Trap,” Jack informs the men before him, watchful as Will melds into the physician’s undoubtedly coat and as Hannibal’s digits gently caress the skin of Will’s neck. The thought of the two men together alarms him, nonetheless, he’s elected to deal with that   
particular affair later. “You can see him when this is over.”

The decree, coupled with a dismissive callousness stuns Will, who remains in his place as Hannibal voices his concurrence with Jack’s ruling. Jack appears to have formulated something based on his assumption that what they’d gathered today proved conclusive and final.

“Will!”

The three men startle, gazes flitting towards the woman traversing through towards them, a carriage now still beside Hannibal’s own.

“Lady Katz,” Will doesn’t miss the stiffness in Jack’s voice. “This area is not open to the public, I suggest you-“

“Too late, Jack,” Beverly snaps, pushing past the man to clasp Will’s arm. “Freddie’s already spread the word, she’s incensed the townspeople. It’s a councilman Will, they’re going to come for you.”

“To Wolf Trap?” Will questions unthinkingly, only to be served a cold glare.

“You need to go home now,” Beverly urges, shooting a glance at Hannibal. “Preferably with the physician. They’re locking the gates, but there are a thousand other ways to get to your home.”

“Can’t” Will grinds out, voice lowered. “Jack’s instructed me to go to Wolf Trap.”

“No way,” The insistence and stubborn flavor Beverly exhibits will only serve to raise Jack’s ire. There is no alternative for Will in this instance. “He’s being an idiot. Tell me he’s leaving someone there with you.”

“We’re going to focus on prevention and that starts in town,” Beverly whirls to face Jack, face reddened by fury. “I’m going to send someone with Will.”

“Someone?” The snarl that erupts from the noblewoman is vicious. 

“We’ll stop it before it starts.”

Beverly’s rage and resentment boils to a fury, yet Will ascertains that the intent behind it has begun to wither at the sight of Jack’s collected and directed disposition. Beverly’s caught on to the fact that a sort of resolution has begun.

“He needs to go home now, Jack.”

With a jerk of his head, Jack dismisses the three, sending one of his men behind them in supplement specifically for the empath.

Beverly drags Will, Hannibal following them closely, her nails digging crescents into Will’s pale skin. Hannibal’s displeasure at the contact is somewhat discomfiting yet pleasing to Will all the same. The exhibited possessiveness is to a lesser degree and that fact provides Will   
with some comfort for the future of their relations.

Beverly insists on accompanying Will to his home, and Hannibal consents, eyes blazing as he bids the both of them goodbye. Will desperately desires for the physician’s company at the moment. The royal guard rides along with them in the carriage and conversation stutters   
between the two of them under the watchful eyes of the man. Beverly exchanges words with the guard before she departs, reluctance drawing her frame downwards and rendering her movements sluggish and unfit for a lady of her standing.

Will lets the guard in, his canines crowding around them both, agitated unusually by the presence of the guard. With a few clipped whistles and gestures, Will subdues them and attempts to retreat to his room, only to be halted by the guard.

“Can you take care of yourself?” 

“What?” Will manages to croak out, rousing sympathy in the guard.

“I meant if the situation calls for it.”

Will nods, throat tightened and chest constricting as he continues to his room.

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

\---

The drapes of every window had been drawn over closed wood and every light had been snuffed out in an attempt to shroud the inhabitants in darkness, yet the moonlight outlined the ridges of the iris markings within Will’s open eyes. Unable to fall into slumber, Will lay still   
on his bed, swamped by Winston and Marcus. The others in his pack were scattered throughout his home, an effective warning and defensive structure.

A small yip from his porch caught his attention.

With bated breath, Will waits. A shuffle of footsteps and the creak of his front door alarm him and Will rises from his bed, calling for silence from an agitated Winston. His knife glints from its place on the stool beside the bed and Will takes it in hand, moving gradually towards   
the window. The pane opens easily enough and Will readies to exit, waiting for a sign from the guard posted in his abode.

“Mr. Graham?”

Will beckons Marcus away from his door. None of his other canines had indicated potential danger and Will stills as he realizes why. The man had been in home before, become acquainted with his dogs and perhaps with his house.

“The guard can’t help you now, and I just wanna talk. Promise.”

Marcus barks, bounding towards the door.

“Stupid fucking dog – never liked –”

Under the shield of the resulting noise, Will hurled his body through the window, body braced for landing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Didn't get time to proofread this chapter since I'm working on college apps :( anyways, the story is definitely drawing to an end and I'm glad for that. I have something else lined up anyway, are you fond of Tomarry? It's going to be a modern detective AU


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> End sorry! I wasn't able to churn anything good out after the hiatus sorry!

Bark scrapes his arm as he stumbles, drawing blood. It terrifies Will, perhaps his pursuer can taste his lethargy in the scent of his blood. He’s running and simultaneously flashing through everyone he’s encountered since the beginning of the case – and he’s coming up short on   
suspects. The ground is damp and his feet sink within, the thick dirt layer working in tandem with the vegetation to slow his flight. 

His pack haven’t followed.

It doesn’t matter, Will thinks with gritted teeth as he stills at the echoes of foot falls reaches his ears. The pursuer is diligent in his pursuit, and more so in his taunts.

“Well then, Mr. Graham,” the man calls out. “I’ll have you know that you’re only making this more difficult for yourself. I just want to talk.”

Inert betwixt a large growth and a few pines, Will rests his feet. He’s wary of the woods at night, it doesn’t appear to want to aid him in escaping his tracker. A sudden shift in the shadow that Will perceives to be the man startles Will.

The crackle of the twigs beneath his feet is enough to send shocks of fear into Will. 

“There you ar-”

Bracing himself, Will takes off as quickly as is possible with his shivering frame into the opposite direction. He’s burning up and all the same frigid, his head and chest on fire while his hands and nose seem frozen solid and incapable of sensation. Will desperately wishes   
Hannibal would appear.

Tears burn at the edges of eyes, blurring his vision as his frustration obfuscates his desire to outrun and outlive the encounter. Will is aware that the man is a tracker, easily discernable from the calculated foot falls to the sharp and accurate movement of each limb under the   
dim light of the canopy, making arching movements that affect nothing other than them both.

“Mr. Graham, really.”

The voice is distant and as Will manages to put more distance between them, it seems to be farther and farther away.

A shuffle of leaves forces Will to freeze, despair crawling upwards in his frame as he thinks of everything wrong he’s done since hurtling his body outside the window, trembling fingers rising in despair in an attempt to brush at his teary visage.

He’s desperate for this to be over.

Golden fur slips through the leaves.

“Winston,” Will croaks, stumbling forward. “Winston, follow me.”

The canine brushes past, quickly drawing pace and out stripping Will. Upset and still shaken, Will follows, eyes fixed forward for the contrast that Winston provides to the dark vegetation and growth of the woods. There’s nothing for either of them in this place, Will thinks. If he   
cannot make it to a shelter, it is unlikely that he will be able to fend off his attacker.

Another shimmering fur coat joins Winston, and then yet another. Will remains quiet as several of his pack band together, hurtling across the floor of the woods determinedly, to where Will knows not.

“Buster,” Will calls out softly. “Buster.”

A short yip resounds in the woods around them and Will refrains from calling for any one of them again, and simply follows. He has no energy left within to resist whatever it is that is occurring. He trudges forward, following the lithe bodies of his canines through the   
undergrowth.

Will misses the familiar tree line of the clearing, realizing too late their destination as they break through into the opening.

“Well hello, Mr. Graham.”

Terrified Will attempts at backtracking, left foot sliding backwards, ready to pivot and retreat once more into the cover of the woods. Catching on something, Will flies back, collapsing with defeat and shock onto the grey grass. The pursuer’s laugh rings around them, moving   
the trees, the stars, as he approaches Will and the pack.

“You killed my daughter Mr. Graham, it’s only fitting that I take care of you,” Will shivers in his efforts to set himself upright, the pursuer moves slowly, granting Will time. The movement of his canines to surround him does not. “Little Abigail you thought looked so pretty as an   
offering, was it?”

“It wasn’t me,” Will chokes out, physically thrusting Buster aside as he attempts to regain his footing and rise. “I didn’t do it.”

“Not what your actions say, Mr. Graham,” the man pauses to cock his head. “Running, hiding, all signs of a guilty man. Who knows what you do living out here alone, Graham.”

Will shuffles backwards, thrusting his hand inside the elastic of his pants to locate the knife he’s brought along with him, hidden inside. Desperate for it to end without altercation, Will’s never been one to force confrontation, he attempts again.

“The Ripper’s been killing off people from town,” Will begins once more. “It’s not me. Ask the Royal Guard, they’ll tell you. There’s more than enough evidence.” 

“It’s obvious enough that you’ve got them fooled, just like you’ve got everyone else in the upper class fooled. What do they see in you Graham?”

Winston whines, nudging the hand Will’s tightened around the knife.

“Specimen to study I get.” 

Buster starts forward.

“Buster,” Will whispers, attempting to call back the mutt. 

“But what I don’t get is why they gotta keep you around so long for. They’ve got enough now I think.”

Will shifts his gaze back to the man, shuffling, anything to draw attention away from Buster’s movements.

“And anyways, after this,” the man’s gaze fixates on Will’s, both of them tensing. “They’ll have someone new to study. They’ll have me.”

Buster’s teeth sink into the man’s leg, drawing a pained scream from the man. Will rises to flee, but the directed force of Winston’s frame leaves him stumbling forward, knife-armed hand rising in an attempt to steady himself. 

“That’s how this is then?” The hoarse grunt alarms Will whose gaze snaps to Buster collapsed in a pool of inky liquid in the grass. The pursuer covers the distance between them, knife raised and poised to tear through Will’s pale flesh. Will jerks backwards in fright, arm   
quivering as he avoids more than defends. The man’s barking laughter cuts through, one slice of the knife slicing through the icy skin of Will’s arm.

The blood pours forth.

Will falters, the throbbing in his arm staggering. He can no longer ignore his body’s condition, but the man continues to advance, eyes glistening under the light of the moon with desperation. The man has nothing to lose. 

The next thrust of bodies has Will sliding his knife through flesh, the thick feeling leaving him euphoric and relishing the spray of blood coating his night clothes. The pursuer lurches but regains footing, eyes narrowing at the sight of Will stationary and in wait. Charging   
forward once more, the pursuer startles as Will counters him, driven not by the need to survive the fight, but to feel once more the flesh parting against the edge of the knife, to witness the simultaneous parting of the skin. Blade handle flush against the abdomen of his   
pursuer, Will meets his attacker eye to eye before his teeth skin into skin.

The spattering of blood showers them both.

The roar of agony only spurs Will further, handle jerked out partially and trailed upwards, he carves through the surface splitting and spilling as his tongue slips to taste. 

The toppling of his opponent is cut by a soft whistle.

Distracted, Will directs his attention to the source of the noise.

Oxblood suit and honeydew eyes stare back at him as Will’s pack bounds away to the visitor, the apparent one in command.

“Hannibal,” Will murmurs, hand on the knife shifting imperceptibly. 

“What the hell?” 

From the corner of his vision, Will observes as the man rises to shaky footing, weakened by the numerous wounds. Hannibal has yet to respond. Will waits as his opponent steadies himself, knife ready. The pursuer snarls, limp stable as he rushes forward to grab at Will as the   
blade swings at his throat. 

Still entranced by the figure of Hannibal, Will allows the knife to scar his cheek, gaze still linked with his physician’s. Rupturing the connection, Will strikes the handle against the skull of the pursuer, waiting for collapse before gripping the man’s nape to force an alignment of   
the man’s head for the final blow.

A hand on his shoulder prevents him from its delivery.

“I will attend to it,” Hannibal murmurs, hand sliding forward to cup Will’s armed one. 

“Why should I trust you?” Will whispers, frame unwinding within the casing that Hannibal’s body has moved to provide.

A soft chuckle tickles his ears.

“I believe you rather lucid of my reasons.”

Will loosens his hold on the knife, allowing Hannibal to gather it in his.

“Abigail’s father, infatuated with another outcast like himself, offers his own offspring, cleansing himself of previous transgressions and allowing for complete privacy and freedom for the both us. Lower class, the father maybe served them in one manner or anoth-”

“Nicholas Boyle was always a rather odd carriage handler.”

“Right. One that you were insistent on sending after me so that he would attack me after seeing the difference in my life and his: I was surrounded by people who believed in me. No one wanted to be around him, he was always the anomaly.” 

Turning himself to bury his face into the warmth of Hannibal’s impeccable dressings, Will winds his bloodstained frame into the fabric of Hannibal’s soul.

“He was your freedom.”

“Not quite,” the baritone whisper sent spikes of arousal through Will, who felt Hannibal’s thigh separating his own. “Boyle served as a means to an end. In his pursuit of you, Boyle rendered a prospect for us cleansed of the past. His sacrifice is tantamount to the carnage you   
participated in.”

Uncaring, Will rocked gently against hardness, his frame wracked with an adrenaline-exacerbated hunger he sought to fulfill through Hannibal. 

“What about everything you put me through?”

Hannibal’s hand forced Will upwards, slotting their hips together seamlessly.

“What of the results it produced?”

Hannibal’s mouth is hungry on Will’s, both nipping and biting and thrusting against each other in abandon. Will moans lewdly as Hannibal tears through the flimsy clothing concealing alabaster frame, the calloused and sinewy hands are sturdy as the manhandle Will closer,   
perhaps melding both of them into one.

“Can you see, Will?”

Will feels the frustration build as he bounces wildly, nearly atop Hannibal, who simply holds him within an iron grip. This man, he is aware, is unlikely to let them part, let Will go. This was a thing who had intruded upon the most private sanctuaries of Will’s life, and departed   
from them leaving little indication that he’d altered everything to suit his orchestration. Hannibal was no mere physician.

And Will knows he is no mere case study. Whatever has overtaken him since his encounter with Nicholas Boyle is sign enough that Will has integrated his demons into himself. Perhaps, Will thinks, gazing with lidded eyes into the approbation nested within Hannibal’s, this is for   
the best.

He has his physician, and his physician has his little plaything.

Shuddering against Hannibal, Will releases.


End file.
